He did not admit that the reason of this uneasiness was Courtier, for, after all, Courtier was, in a sense, nobody, and ‘an extremist’ into the bargain, and an extremist always affected the centre of Harbinger’s anatomy, causing it to give off a peculiar smile and tone of voice.  Nevertheless, his eyes, whenever they fell on that sanguine, steady, ironic face, shone with a sort of cold inquiry, or were even darkened by the shade of fear.  They met seldom, it is true, for most of his day was spent in motoring and speaking, and most of Courtier’s in writing and riding, his leg being still too weak for walking.  But once or twice in the smoking room late at night, he had embarked on some bantering discussion with the champion of lost causes; and very soon an ill-concealed impatience had crept into his voice.  Why a man should waste his time, flogging dead horses on a journey to the moon, was incomprehensible!  Facts were facts, human nature would never be anything but human nature!  And it was peculiarly galling to see in Courtier’s eye a gleam, to catch in his voice a tone, as if he were thinking:  “My young friend, your soup is cold!”

On a morning after one of these encounters, seeing Barbara sally forth in riding clothes, he asked if he too might go round the stables, and started forth beside her, unwontedly silent, with an odd feeling about his heart, and his throat unaccountably dry.

The stables at Monkland Court were as large as many country houses.  Accommodating thirty horses, they were at present occupied by twenty-one, including the pony of little Ann.  For height, perfection of lighting, gloss, shine, and purity of atmosphere they were unequalled in the county.  It seemed indeed impossible that any horse could ever so far forget himself in such a place as to remember that he was a horse.  Every morning a little bin of carrots, apples, and lumps of sugar, was set close to the main entrance, ready for those who might desire to feed the dear inhabitants.

Reined up to a brass ring on either side of their stalls with their noses towards the doors, they were always on view from nine to ten, and would stand with their necks arched, ears pricked, and coats gleaming, wondering about things, soothed by the faint hissing of the still busy grooms, and ready to move their noses up and down the moment they saw someone enter.

In a large loose-box at the end of the north wing Barbara’s favourite chestnut hunter, all but one saving sixteenth of whom had been entered in the stud book, having heard her footstep, was standing quite still with his neck turned.  He had been crumping up an apple placed amongst his feed, and his senses struggled between the lingering flavour of that delicacy,—­and the perception of a sound with which he connected carrots.  When she unlatched his door, and said “Hal,” he at once went towards his manger, to show his independence, but when she said:  “Oh! very well!” he turned round and came towards her.  His eyes,