Through this snatched moment of talk, they had been conscious of the wrangling of the Marchbanks family, back there by the porch. Now the voices went up to an angry climax; some one started down the path toward them. “All right,” said Pearse hastily. “Then you won’t go—just yet, anyhow? Not till I’ve seen you again? ... Here comes our friend Marchbanks.” Pearse reached for her hand. Holding it, speaking low and rapidly: “Stay here till I get the chance,” His hand tightened down hard on the one he held in a farewell pressure. Then he loosened the reins, started his horse, and said in a good loud voice, “See you soon again, Hilda. Good-by for the present,” and went off at a lope. Of course the colonel heard that last—and, of course, Pearse intended he should. Exasperated, unable to retaliate, as she went through the gate he did that unforgivable thing—reached up and took hold of her pony’s bit with a jerk. Instantly she was out of the saddle. She’d not go back to the house, led like a bad child. Marchbanks flung the rein to the waiting boy and followed at once. Not a soul on the porch now. They went through the front door almost together. Hilda walked into the whole family; Fayte over at the farther end of the big dining-room, apparently getting himself something to eat at the sideboard; Maybelle, half-way up the stairs, looking back across her shoulder, making a little sign to Hilda—Maybelle was thinking only of her own affairs and the possibility of Hilda, under pressure, letting out something about them; the children were pulling at their mother, begging for their bread and milk. Mrs. Marchbanks tried to shove them off with Miss Ferguson. They didn’t want to go with the teacher. The two women were moving slowly in the direction of the dining-room arch when Mrs. Marchbanks caught sight of her husband and Hilda at the front door. She came toward them. “Hold on a minute, Hilda,” the colonel was saying, “I don’t want you to make any mistake about this. Understand—you can’t stay in my house and keep up an affair with a fellow like Pearse Masters.” Hilda stopped short; her face flamed as though it had been slapped. “I’m not keeping up an affair—with anybody. You’ve no right to say such a thing to me, Colonel Marchbanks!” She looked about; all the eyes were upon her, “And I think I’d better not stay in your house, anyhow.” “Now, don’t go and make her mad, Lee.” Mrs. Marchbanks came over. “She’s tired and excited. Of course she’s going to stay with us. We’re all sort of upset this evening. It’s no time to pick at the girl about—about— Run on to your room, Hilda, and wash up for supper. I’ll talk to this cross man. It’ll be all right.”