‘We think so,’ they remarked.

‘There’s the mother too,’ said he; and Nesta saw that the ladies shadowed.

They retired.  Then she begged him to ‘tell her of her own dear mother.’  The news gave comfort, except for the suspicion, that the dear mother was being worn by her entertaining so largely.  ‘Papa is to blame,’ said Nesta.

’A momentary strain.  Your father has an idea of Parliament; one of the London Boroughs.’

‘And I, Captain Dartrey, when do I go back to them?’

’Your mother comes down to consult with you.  And now, do we ride together?’

‘You are free?’

‘My uncle, Lord Clan, lets me out.’

‘To-day?’

‘Why, yes!’

‘This morning?’

‘In an hour’s time.’

‘I will be ready.’

Nesta sent a line of excuse to Mrs. Marsett, throwing in a fervent adjective for balm.

That fair person rode out with the troop under conduct of the hallowing squire of the stables, and passed by Nesta on horseback beside Dartrey Fenellan at the steps of a huge hotel; issuing from which, pretty Mrs. Blathenoy was about to mount.  Mrs. Marsett looked ahead and coloured, but she could not restrain one look at Nesta, that embraced her cavalier.  Nesta waved hand to her, and nodded.  Mrs. Marsett withdrew her eyes; her doing so, silent though it was, resembled the drag back to sea of the shingle-wave below her, such a screaming of tattle she heard in the questions discernible through the attitude of the cavalier and of the lady, who paused to stare, before the leap up in the saddle.  ’Who is she?—­what is she?—­how did you know her?—­where does she come from?—­ wears her hat on her brows!—­huge gauntlets out of style!—­shady! shady! shady!’ And as always during her nervous tumults, the name of Worrell made diapason of that execrable uproar.  Her hat on her brows had an air of dash, defying a world it could win, as Ned well knew.  But she scanned her gauntlets disapprovingly.  This town, we are glad to think, has a bright repute for glove-shops.  And Mrs. Marsett could applaud herself for sparing Ned’s money; she had mended her gloves, if they were in the fashion.—­But how does the money come?  Hark at that lady and that gentleman questioning Miss Radnor of everything, everything in the world about her!  Not a word do they get from Miss Radnor.  And it makes them the more inquisitive.  Idle rich people, comfortably fenced round, are so inquisitive!  And Mrs. Marsett, loving Nesta for the notice of her, maddened by the sting of tongues it was causing, heard the wash of the beach, without consciousness of analogies, but with a body ready to jump out of skin, out of life, in desperation at the sound.

She was all impulse; a shifty piece of unmercenary stratagem occasionally directing it.  Arrived at her lodgings, she wrote to Nesta:  ’I entreat you not to notice me, if you pass me on the road again.  Let me drop, never mind how low I go.  I was born to be wretched.  A line from you, just a line now and then, only to show me I am not forgotten.  I have had a beautiful dream.  I am not bad in reality; I love goodness, I know.  I cling to the thought of you, as my rescue, I declare.  Please, let me hear:  if it’s not more than “good day” and your initials on a post-card.’