Honora made some protest that seemed to satisfy them, tried to rally herself, and succeeded sufficiently to pass muster.  After lunch they repaired again to the bridge table, and at four Hugh went upstairs to change into his riding clothes.  Five minutes longer she controlled herself, and then made some paltry excuse, indifferent now as to what they said or thought, and followed him.  She knocked at his dressing-room door and entered.  He was drawing on his boots.  “Hello, Honora,” he said.

Honora turned to his man, and dismissed him.

“I wish to speak to Mr. Chiltern alone.”

Chiltern paused in his tugging at the straps, and looked up at her.

“What’s the matter with you to-day, Honora?” he asked.  “You looked like the chief mourner at a funeral all through lunch.”

He was a little on edge, that she knew.  He gave another tug at the boot, and while she was still hesitating, he began again.

“I ought to apologize, I know, for bringing these people up without notice, but I didn’t suppose you’d object when you understood how naturally it all came about.  I thought a little livening up, as I said, wouldn’t, hurt us.  We’ve had a quiet winter, to put it mildly.”  He laughed a little.  “I didn’t have a chance to see you until this morning, and when I went to your room they told me you’d gone out.”

“Hugh,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.  “It isn’t the guests.  If you want people, and they amuse you, I’m—­I’m glad to have them.  And if I’ve seemed to be—­cold to them, I’m sorry.  I tried my best—­I mean I did not intend to be cold.  I’ll sit up all night with them, if you like.  And I didn’t come to reproach you, Hugh.  I’ll never do that—­I’ve got no right to.”

She passed her hand over her eyes.  If she had any wrongs, if she had suffered any pain, the fear that obsessed her obliterated all.  In spite of her disillusionment, in spite of her newly acquired ability to see him as he was, enough love remained to scatter, when summoned, her pride to the winds.

Having got on both boots, he stood up.

“What’s the trouble, then?” he asked.  And he took an instant’s hold of her chin—­a habit he had—­and smiled at her.

He little knew how sublime, in its unconscious effrontery, his question was!  She tried to compose herself, that she might be able to present comprehensively to his finite masculine mind the ache of today.

“Hugh, it’s that black horse.”  She could not bring herself to pronounce the name Mrs. Rindge had christened him.

“What about him?” he said, putting on his waistcoat.

“Don’t ride him!” she pleaded.  “I—­I’m afraid of him—­I’ve been afraid of him ever since that day.

“It may be a foolish feeling, I know.  Sometimes the feelings that hurt women most are foolish.  If I tell you that if you ride him you will torture me, I’m sure you’ll grant what I ask.  It’s such a little thing and it means so much—­so much agony to me.  I’d do anything for you—­give up anything in the world at your slightest wish.  Don’t ride him!”