The old butler, as he flung open the doors at her approach, seemed to be scrutinizing her.

“Where’s Mr. Chiltern, Starling?” she asked.

“He’s gone for a ride, madame.”

Hugh had gone for a ride!

She did not see him until lunch was announced, when he came to the table in his riding clothes.  It may have been that he began to talk a little eagerly about the excursion he had made to an outlying farm and the conversation he had had with the farmer who leased it.

“His lease is out in April,” said Chiltern, “and when I told him I thought I’d turn the land into the rest of the estate he tried to bribe me into a renewal.”

“Bribe you?”

Chiltern laughed.

“Only in joke, of course.  The man’s a character, and he’s something of a politician in these parts.  He intimated that there would be a vacancy in this congressional district next year, that Grierson was going to resign, and that a man with a long purse who belonged to the soil might have a chance.  I suppose he thinks I would buy it.”

“And—­would you like to go to Congress, Hugh?”

“Well,” he said, smiling, “a man never can tell when he may have to eat his words.  I don’t say I shouldn’t—­in the distant future.  It would have pleased the General.  But if I go,” he added with characteristic vigour, “it will be in spite of the politicians, not because of them.  If I go I shan’t go bound, and I’ll fight for it.  I should enjoy that.”

And she was able to accord him the smile of encouragement he expected.

“I am sure you would,” she replied.  “I think you might have waited until this afternoon and taken me,” she reproached him.  “You know how I enjoy going with you to those places.”

It was not until later in the meal that he anticipated, in an admirably accidental manner, the casual remark she had intended to make about church.

“Your predictions were fulfilled,” she answered; “the sermon wasn’t thrilling.”

He glanced at her.  And instead of avoiding his eyes, she smiled into them.

“Did you see the First Citizen of Grenoble?” he inquired.

“I am sure of it,” she laughed, “if he’s yellow, with a drooping eye and a presence; he was kind enough to conduct me to the pew.”

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “that’s Israel Simpson—­you couldn’t miss him.  How I used to hate him when I was a boy!  I haven’t quite got over it yet.  I used to outdo myself to make things uncomfortable for him when he came up here—­I think it was because he always seemed to be truckling.  He was ridiculously servile and polite in those days.  He’s changed since,” added Hugh, dryly.  “He must quite have forgotten by this time that the General made him.”

“Is—­is he so much?” said Honora.

Her husband laughed.