“It is bad luck to turn back,” called out Maude.  “You won’t win.”

He was already half-way to the house.  A couple of minutes after entering it he reappeared again, and came flying down the slopes at full speed.  Suddenly his foot slipped, and he fell to the ground.  The only one who saw the accident was Mr. O’Moore; the general attention at that moment being concentrated upon the river.  He hastened back.  Hartledon was then gathering himself up, but slowly.

“No damage,” said he; “only a bit of a wrench to the foot.  Give me your arm for a minute, O’Moore.  This ground must be slippery from yesterday’s rain.”

Mr. O’Moore held out his arm, and Hartledon took it.  “The ground is not slippery, Hart; it’s as dry as a bone.”

“Then what caused me to slip?”

“The rate you were coming at.  Had you not better give up the contest, and rest?”

“Nonsense!  My foot will be all right in the skiff.  Let us get on; they’ll all be out of patience.”

When it was seen that something was amiss with him, that he leaned rather heavily on the O’Moore, eager steps pressed round him.  Lord Hartledon laughed, making light of it; he had been so clumsy as to stumble, and had twisted his ankle a little.  It was nothing.

“Stay on shore and give it a rest,” cried one, as he stepped once more into the little boat.  “I am sure you are hurt.”

“Not I. It will have rest in the boat.  Anne,” he said, looking up at her with his pleasant smile, “do you wear my colours still?”

She touched the knot on her bosom, and smiled back to him, her tone full of earnestness.  “I would wear them always.”

And the countess-dowager, in her bedecked flounces and crimson feather, looked as if she would like to throw the knot and its wearer into the river, in the wake of the wager boats.  After one or two false starts, they got off at last.

“Do you think it seemly, this flirtation of yours with Lord Hartledon?”

Anne turned in amazement.  The face of the old dowager was close to her; the snub nose and rouged cheeks and false flaxen front looked ready to eat her up.

“I have no flirtation with Lord Hartledon, Lady Kirton; or he with me.  When I was a child, and he a great boy, years older, he loved me and petted me as a little sister:  I think he does the same still.”

“My daughter tells me you are counting upon one of the two.  If I say to you, do not be too sanguine of either, I speak as a friend; as your mother might speak.  Lord Hartledon is already appropriated; and Val Elster is not worth appropriating.”

Was she mad?  Anne Ashton looked at her, really doubting it.  No, she was only vulgar-minded, and selfish, and utterly impervious to all sense of shame in her scheming.  Instinctively Anne moved a pace further off.

“I do not think Lord Hartledon is appropriated yet,” spoke Anne, in a little spirit of mischievous retaliation.  “That some amongst his present guests would be glad to appropriate him may be likely enough; but what if he is not willing to be appropriated?  He said to Mr. Elster, last week, that they were wasting their time.”