When the hateful meal is over he rises, telling himself that he must make it up with her, and as soon as possible.  That child! to have a living feud with her.  It is out of the question!  And, besides, before one’s guests!  How bad it will look.  A disagreement is not allowed between a host and hostess—­when one is staying in their house, at all events.  It is quite simple to get all the quarrelling over beforehand, to so arrange as to look like winged angels when one’s house-party is here to see.

He refuses to have anything to do with a swift glance from Mrs. Bethune as he leaves the breakfast-room.  He gets quickly past her, disturbed at heart, and going through the hall, turns abruptly towards the stables.

The day is lovely.  A sort of Indian summer reigns.  And presently most of those staying in the house turn their steps towards the pleasure grounds.  The tennis courts have been kept marked, in spite of the fact that the regular tennis season is at an end, and Mr. Gower, who is an indefatigable player, has called on Miss Hescott to get up a double with him.

The idea has evidently caught on, for now everyone seems to be swarming tennis-wards, rackets in hand, and tennis shoes on feet.

Rylton, turning back from the stables an hour later, and with a mind still much upset, finds all the courts occupied, and everyone very much alive.  Standing on the top of the stone steps that lead down to one of the courts, he glances sharply round him.  No!  Tita is not here.  Tita, who is a perfect devotee where tennis is concerned.  Where is she, then?  A second time his glance sweeps the tennis courts, and now his brow grows dark; Hescott is not here, either.

He draws in his breath a little sharply, and without descending the steps, goes round the courts nearest him to where an opening in the wood will lead him beyond fear of conversation.

As he reaches this opening, a voice behind him cries gaily, “Whither away, Sir Maurice?”

He turns and manages to smile pleasantly at Minnie Hescott, who, with Mrs. Bethune, is close behind him.  A fancy that Marian has brought Miss Hescott here to say something occurs to him, and he curses himself for the thought.  Is he growing suspicious of everyone?

“I was going down to one of the lower farms,” says he in a light tone.  He had not been going there, but the evasion seems impossible to avoid.

“You won’t find anything there," says Mrs. Bethune, smiling at him.  She is dressed entirely in black, and from under the huge black hat that shades her face her eyes gleam up at him in a sort of mockery—­sad, yet beseeching.  She is looking beautiful!  Her pale face, so refined; the masses of her rich, red hair shining gorgeously in the clear sunlight.

“No?  I shall find old Wicks and his wife, at all events.”

“Oh, that?  Yes.”

“Why, what did you think I was looking for?”