A little later they all set out for the stables.  These buildings at Highlawns, framed by great trees, were old-fashioned and picturesque, surrounding three sides of a court, with a yellow brick wall on the fourth.  The roof of the main building was capped by a lantern, the home of countless pigeons.  Mrs. Rindge was in a habit, and one by one the saddle horses were led out, chiefly for her inspection; and she seemed to Honora to become another woman as she looked them over with a critical eye and discussed them with Hugh and O’Grady, the stud-groom, and talked about pedigrees and strains.  For she was renowned in this department of sport on many fields, both for recklessness and skill.

“Where did you get that brute, Hugh?” she asked presently.

Honora, who had been talking to Pembroke, looked around with a start.  And at the sight of the great black horse, bought on that unforgettable day, she turned suddenly faint.

“Over here in the country about ten miles,” Chiltern was saying.  “I heard of him, but I didn’t expect anything until I went to look at him last week.”

“What do you call him?” asked Mrs. Rindge.

“I haven’t named him.”

“I’ll give you a name.”

Chiltern looked at her.  “What is it?” he said.

“Oblivion,” she replied: 

“By George, Adele,” he exclaimed, “you have a way of hitting it off!”

“Will you let me ride him this afternoon?” she asked.

“I’m a—­a candidate for oblivion.”  She laughed a little and her eyes shone feverishly.

“No you don’t,” he said.  “I’m giving you the grey.  He’s got enough in him for any woman—­even for you:  And besides, I don’t think the black ever felt a side saddle, or any other kind, until last week.”

“I’ve got another habit,” she said eagerly.  “I’d rather ride him astride.  I’ll match you to see who has him.”

Chiltern laughed.

“No you don’t,” he repeated.  “I’ll ride him to-day, and consider it to-morrow.”

“I—­I think I’ll go back to the house,” said Honora to Pembroke.  “It’s rather hot here in the sun.”

“I’m not very keen about sunshine, either,” he declared.

At lunch she was unable to talk; to sustain, at least, a conversation.  That word oblivion, which Mrs. Rindge had so aptly applied to the horse, was constantly on her lips, and it would not have surprised her if she had spoken it.  She felt as though a heavy weight lay on her breast, and to relieve its intolerable pressure drew in her breath deeply.  She was wild with fear.  The details of the great room fixed themselves indelibly in her brain; the subdued light, the polished table laden with silver and glass, the roses, and the purple hot-house grapes.  All this seemed in some way to be an ironic prelude to disaster.  Hugh, pausing in his badinage with Mrs. Rindge, looked at her.

“Cheer up, Honora,” he said.

“I’m afraid this first house-party is too much for her,” said Mrs. Kame.