There was not a man present who did not express his admiration for her beauty and her grace; hardly a woman who did not instantly make some depreciatory remark.  The latter fact spoke perhaps more convincingly for the undoubted success she had created than did the former.

Maurice was standing by one of the dining-room windows, Mrs. Romer, as usual, by his side.  He alone, perhaps, of all the men who saw her vault lightly into her saddle, made no audible remark, but perhaps his admiration was all too plainly written in his eyes, for it called forth a contemptuous remark from his companion—­

“She is a great deal too tall to look well on a horse; those big women should never ride.”

“What! not with a figure so perfect as hers?”

“Yes, that is the third time you have spoken about her figure to-day,” said Helen, irritably.  “What on earth can you see in it?” for Mrs. Romer, who was slight almost to angularity, was, as all thin women are, openly indignant at the masculine foible for more flowing outlines, which was displayed with greater candour than discretion by her quasi-lover.

“What do I see in it?” repeated Maurice, who was dimly conscious of her jealousy, and was injudicious enough to lose his temper slightly over its exhibition.  “I see in it the beauty of a goddess, and the perfection of a woman!”

“Really!” with a sarcastic laugh; “how wonderfully enthusiastic and poetical you become over Miss Nevill’s charms; it is something quite new in you, Maurice.  Your interest in this ‘goddess-like’ young lady strikes me as singularly warmly expressed; it is more lover-like than fraternal.”

“What do you mean?” he said, looking at her coldly and angrily.  Helen had seen that look of hard contempt in his face before; she quailed a little before it, and was frightened at what she had said.

“Of course,” she said, reddening, “I know it’s all right; but it does really sound peculiar, your admiring her so much; and—­and—­it is hardly flattering to me.”

“I don’t see that it has anything to do with you,” and he turned shortly away from her.

She made a step or two after him.  “You will ride with me, will you not, Maurice?  You know I can’t go very hard; you might give me a lead or two, and keep near me.”

“You must not ask me to make any promises,” he said, politely, but coldly.  “Guy Miller says there is a groom told off to look after you ladies.  Of course, if I can be of any use to you, I shall be happy, but it is no use making rash engagements as to what one will do in a run.”

“Come, come, it’s time we were off,” cries out Tom Esterworth at the further end of the room, and his stalwart figure makes its way in the direction of the door.

In a very few minutes the order “to horse” has gone forth, and the whole company have sallied forth and are busy mounting their horses in front of the house.

Off goes the master, well in front, at a sharp trot, towards the woods on the further slope of the hill, and off go the hounds and the whips, and the riders, in a long and gay procession after him, down the wide avenue.