They parted, therefore, with many kind expressions and much satisfaction.

“I will write you an account of all our doings at Cowes.  I expect it will be very gay and pleasant there.  How I wish you were to be of the party, instead of moping here!” said Mrs. Ormonde.

“Thank you.  I should like it all, no doubt, but not just now.  I will keep you informed of our small doings.”

So Mrs. Ormonde steamed on her way rejoicing, and Katherine re-entered a pretty low pony-carriage in which she drove a pair of quiet, well-broken ponies, selected for her by Bertie Payne, whose conversion had not obliterated his carnal knowledge of horseflesh.  A small groom always accompanied her, for though improved by the practice of driving, she did not like to be alone with her steeds.

She had nearly reached the chief street of Sandbourne, when a tall gentleman in yachting dress strolled slowly round the corner of a lane which led to the beach.  He paused and raised his hat.  She recognized De Burgh and drew up.

“And so you are driving in capital style,” was his greeting; “all by yourself, too.  Will you give me a lift back?”

“Certainly.  Where have you come from?”

“Melford’s yacht.  I escorted my revered relative, old De Burgh, down to Cowes.  He has a little villa there.  As he has grown quite civil of late, I think it right to encourage him.  Melford was there, and invited me to take a short cruise.  So I made him land me here just now.  The yacht is still in the offing.  Lady Alice was on board.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Katherine, with much interest.  “How is she?”

“So far as one can judge from the exterior, remarkably well, and exactly the same as ever.  It is rather funny, but they had Renshaw on board too, the son of the big brewer who has bought, or is going to buy, Errington’s house in Berkeley Square.  I fancy it is not impossible he may come in for Errington’s ex-fiancee as well as his ex-residence.”

“It cannot be, surely!” cried Katherine, flushing with a curious feeling.

“Why not?  I don’t say immediately.  I have no doubt everything will be done decently and in order.”

“Well, it is incomprehensible.”

“Not to me.  What can—­(Make that little brute on the off side keep up to the collar.  You want a few lessons from me still.) What can a girl like Lady Alice do?  She is an earl’s daughter.  She cannot dig; to beg she is ashamed; she must therefore take to herself a husband from the mammon of unaristocratic money-grubbers.”

“I should like to meet her again—­poor Lady Alice!” said Katherine, more to herself than to her companion.

“I think you are wasting your commiseration,” he returned.  “She seems quite happy.”

“She may be successful in hiding her feelings.”

De Burgh laughed.  “Tell me,” he asked, “do you really think Errington is the sort of fellow women break their hearts about?”