It was at Barnard Scrolls, the next station to Worsted Skeynes, on the following afternoon, that a young man entered a first-class compartment of the 3.10 train to town.  The young man wore a Newmarket coat, natty white gloves, and carried an eyeglass.  His face was well coloured, his chestnut moustache well brushed, and his blue eyes with their loving expression seemed to say, “Look at me—­come, look at me—­can anyone be better fed?” His valise and hat-box, of the best leather, bore the inscription, “E.  Maydew, 8th Lancers.”

There was a lady leaning back in a corner, wrapped to the chin in a fur garment, and the young man, encountering through his eyeglass her cool, ironical glance, dropped it and held out his hand.

“Ah, Mrs. Bellew, great pleasure t’see you again so soon.  You goin’ up to town?  Jolly dance last night, wasn’t it?  Dear old sort, the Squire, and Mrs. Pendyce such an awf’ly nice woman.”

Mrs. Bellew took his hand, and leaned back again in her corner.  She was rather paler than usual, but it became her, and Captain Maydew thought he had never seen so charming a creature.

“Got a week’s leave, thank goodness.  Most awf’ly slow time of year.  Cubbin’s pretty well over, an’ we don’t open till the first.”

He turned to the window.  There in the sunlight the hedgerows ran golden and brown away from the clouds of trailing train smoke.  Young Maydew shook his head at their beauty.

“The country’s still very blind,” he said.  “Awful pity you’ve given up your huntin’.”

Mrs. Bellew did not trouble to answer, and it was just that certainty over herself, the cool assurance of a woman who has known the world, her calm, almost negligent eyes, that fascinated this young man.  He looked at her quite shyly.

‘I suppose you will become my slave,’ those eyes seemed to say, ’but I can’t help you, really.’

“Did you back George’s horse?  I had an awf’ly good race.  I was at school with George.  Charmin’ fellow, old George.”

In Mrs. Bellew’s eyes something seemed to stir down in the depths, but young Maydew was looking at his glove.  The handle of the carriage had left a mark that saddened him.

“You know him well, I suppose, old George?”

“Very well.”

“Some fellows, if they have a good thing, keep it so jolly dark.  You fond of racin’, Mrs. Bellew?”

“Passionately.”

“So am I” And his eyes continued, ‘It’s ripping to like what you like,’ for, hypnotised, they could not tear themselves away from that creamy face, with its full lips and the clear, faintly smiling eyes above the high collar of white fur.

At the terminus his services were refused, and rather crestfallen, with his hat raised, he watched her walk away.  But soon, in his cab, his face regained its normal look, his eyes seemed saying to the little mirror, ‘Look at me come, look at me—­can anyone be better fed?’