In a moment more the car flashed down the drive and out of Badsworth Hall precincts, and was soon panting and pounding along the country road at most unlawful speed.  As a rule Maryllia hated being in a motor-car, but on this occasion she was glad of the swift rush through the air; had the vehicle torn madly down a precipice she would scarcely have cared, so eager was she to get away from the hateful vicinity of Lord Roxmouth.  She was angry too—­angry with Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, whose hand she recognised in the matter as having so earnestly begged her to go to Badsworth Hall that afternoon,—­she despised Sir Morton Pippitt for lending himself to the scheme,—­and with all her heart she loathed Mr. Marius Longford whom she at once saw was Roxmouth’s paid tool.  The furious rate at which Lord Charlemont drove his car was a positive joy to her—­and as he was much too busy with his steering gear to speak, she gave herself up to the smouldering indignation that burned in her soul while she was, so to speak, carried through space as on a panting whirlwind.

“Why can they not leave me alone!” she thought passionately—­“How dare they follow me to my own home!—­my own lands!—­and spy upon me in everything I do!  It is a positive persecution and more than that,—­it is a wicked design on Aunt Emily’s part to compromise me with Roxmouth.  She wants to set people talking down here in the country just as she set them talking in town, and to make everyone think I am engaged to him, or ought to be engaged to him.  It is cruel!—­I suppose I shall be driven away from here just as I have been driven from London,—­is there no way in which I can escape from this man whom I hate!—­No place in the world where he cannot find me and follow me!”

The brown hue of thatched roofs through the trees here caused Lord Charlemont to turn round and address her.

“Just there!” he said, briefly—­“Six minutes exactly!”

“Good!” said Maryllia, nodding approvingly—­“But go slowly through the village, won’t you?  There are so many dear little children always playing about.”

He slackened speed at once, and with a weird toot-tootling of his horn guided the car on at quite a respectable ambling-donkey pace.

“You said the church?”

“Yes, please!”

Another minute, and she had alighted.

“Thanks so much!” she said, smiling up into his goggle-guarded eyes.  “Will you rush back for the others, please?  And—­and—­may I ask you a favour?”

“A thousand!” he answered, thinking what a pretty little woman she was, as he spoke.

“Well—­don’t—­even if they want you to do so,—­don’t bring Lord Roxmouth or Mr. Marius Longford back to the Manor.  They are Sir Morton Pippitt’s friends and guests—­they are not mine!”

A faint flicker of surprise passed over the aristocratic motor-driver’s features, but he made no observation.  He merely said: