He talked to her largely about Hugh, of whom he appeared sincerely fond.  The qualities which attracted Mr. Pembroke in his own sex were somewhat peculiar, and seemingly consisted largely in a readiness to drop the business at hand, whatever it might be, at the suggestion of a friend to do something else; the “something else,” of course, to be the conception of an ingenious mind.  And it was while he was in the midst of an anecdote proving the existence of this quality in his friend that he felt a sudden clutch on his arm.

They listened.  Faintly, very faintly, could be heard the sound of hoof beats; rapid, though distant.

“Do you hear?” she whispered, and still held his arm.

“It’s just like them to race back,” said Pembroke, with admirable nonchalance.

“But they wouldn’t come back at this time—­it’s too early.  Hugh always takes long rides.  They started for Hubbard’s—­it’s twelve miles.”

“Adele changes her mind every minute of the day,” he said.

“Listen!” she cried, and her clutch tightened.  The hoof beats grew louder.  “It’s only one—­it’s only one horse!”

Before he could answer, she was already halfway up the garden path towards the house.  He followed her as she ran panting through the breakfast room, the dining room, and drawing-room, and when they reached the hall, Starling, the butler, and two footmen were going out at the door.  A voice—­Mrs. Kame’s—­cried out, “What is it?” over the stairs, but they paid no heed.  As they reached the steps they beheld the slight figure of Mrs. Rindge on a flying horse coming towards them up the driveway.  Her black straw hat had slipped to the back of her neck, her hair was awry, her childish face white as paper.  Honora put her hand to her heart.  There was no need to tell her the news—­she had known these many hours.

Mrs. Rindge’s horse came over the round grass-plot of the circle and planted his fore feet in the turf as she pulled him up.  She lurched forward.  It was Starling who lifted her off—­George Pembroke stood by Honora.

“My God, Adele,” he exclaimed, “why don’t you speak?”

She was staring at Honora.

“I can’t!” she cried.  “I can’t tell you—­it’s too terrible!  The horse—­” she seemed to choke.

It was Honora who went up to her with a calmness that awed them.

“Tell me,” she said, “is he dead?”

Mrs. Rindge nodded, and broke into hysterical sobbing.

“And I wanted to ride him myself,” she sobbed, as they led her up the steps.

In less than an hour they brought him home and laid him in the room in which he had slept from boyhood, and shut the door.  Honora looked into his face.  It was calm at last, and his body strangely at rest.  The passions which had tortured it and driven it hither and thither through a wayward life had fled:  the power gone that would brook no guiding hand, that had known no master.  It was not until then that she fell upon him, weeping . . . .