Should he marry one of the sisters?  Ridiculous!  But what was there to do?  To-day he was nearly thirty; in ten years he would be a middle-aged man; and, alas! for he felt in him manifold resources, sufficient were he to live for five hundred years.  Must he marry Agnes?  He might if she was a peeress in her own right!  Or should he win a peerage for himself by some great poem, or by some great political treachery?  No, no; he wanted nothing better than to live always strong and joyous in this corner of fair England; and to be always loved by girls, and to be always talked of by them about their tea-tables.  Oh, for a cup of tea and a slice of warm buttered toast!

A good hour’s ride yawned between him and Holly Park, but by crossing the downs it might be reduced to three-quarters of an hour.  He hesitated, fearing he might miss his way in the fog, but the tea-table lured him.  He resolved to attempt it, and forced his horse up a slightly indicated path, which he hoped would led him to a certain barn.  High above him a horseman, faint as the shadow of a bird, made his way cantering briskly.  Mike strove to overtake him, but suddenly missed him:  behind him the pathway was disappearing.

Fearing he might have to pass a night on the downs, he turned his horse’s head; but the animal was obdurate, and a moment after he was lost.  He said, “Great Scott! where am I?  Where did this ploughed field come from?  I must be near the dike.”  Then thinking that he recognized the headland, he rode in a different direction, but was stopped by a paling and a chalk-pit, and, riding round it, he guessed the chalk-pit must be fifty feet deep.  Strange white patches, fabulous hillocks, and distortions of ground loomed through the white darkness; and a valley opened on his right so steep that he was afraid to descend into it.  Very soon minutes became hours and miles became leagues.

“There’s nothing for it but to lie under a furze-bush.”  With two pocket-handkerchiefs he tied his horse’s fore-legs close together, and sat down and lit a cigar.  The furze-patch was quite hollow underneath and almost dry.

“It is nearly full moon,” he said; “were it not for that it would be pitch dark.  Good Lord! thirteen hours of this; I wish I had never been born!”

He had not, however, finished his first cigar before a horse’s head and shoulders pushed through the mist.  Mike sprang to his feet.

“Can you tell me the way off these infernal downs?” he cried.  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Edith.”

“Oh, is that you, Mr. Fletcher?  I have lost my way and my groom too.  I am awfully frightened; I missed him of a sudden in the fog.  What shall I do?  Can you tell me the way?”

“Indeed I cannot; if I knew the way I should not be sitting under this furze-bush.”

“What shall we do?  I must get home.”

“It is very terrible, Lady Edith, but I’m afraid you will not be able to get home till the fog lifts.”