“I don’t think our Thursdays are remarkably enlivening, mother,” said Alicia, objecting to the faintest suggestion of fussiness, the crying sin of both her parents. And then she turned to Isola, and measured her from head to foot. “It’s rather a pity you don’t hunt,” she said. “We had a splendid morning with the hounds.” “Perhaps I may get a little hunting by-and-by, when my husband comes home.” “Ah, but one can’t begin all at once; and this is a difficult country; breakneck hills, and nasty banks. Have you hunted much?” “Hardly at all. I was out in a boar-hunt once, near Angers, but only as a looker-on. It was a grand sight. The Duke of Beaufort came over to Brittany on purpose to join in it.” “How glorious a boar-hunt must be! I must get my father to take me to Angers next year. Do you know a great many people there?” “No, only two or three professors at the college, and the Marquis de Querangal, the gentleman who has the boar-hounds. His daughter used to visit at Dinan, and she and I were great friends.” “Lord Lostwithiel talked about boar-hunting the other night,” said Alicia. “It must be capital fun.” His name recurred in this way, whatever the conversation might be, with more certainty than Zero on the wheel at roulette. He had been there in the evening, Isola thought. There had been a dinner-party, perhaps, at which he had been present. She had not long to wonder. The name once pronounced, the stream of talk flowed on. Yes, there had been a dinner, and Lord Lostwithiel had been delightful; so brilliant in conversation as compared with everybody else; so witty, so cynical, so _fin de siècle_. “I didn’t hear him say anything very much out of the common,” said Mrs. Crowther, in her matter-of-fact way. She liked having a nobleman or any other local magnate at her table; but she had too much common sense to be hypnotized by his magnificence, and made to taste milk and water as Maronean wine. “Do you know Lord Lostwithiel?” Belinda asked languidly, as Isola sipped her tea, sitting shyly in the broad glare of a colossal fireplace. “Oh yes, by-the-by, you met him here the week before last.” Mrs. Disney blushed to the roots of those soft tendril-like curls which clustered about her forehead; but she said never a word. She had no occasion to tell them the history of that meeting in the rain, or of those many subsequent meetings which had drifted her into almost the familiarity of an old friendship. They might take credit to themselves for having made her acquainted with their star if they liked. She had seen plenty of smart people at Dinan in those sunny summer months when visitors came from Dinard to look at the old quiet inland city. Lostwithiel’s rank had no disturbing influence upon her mind. It was himself--something in his look and in his voice, in the mere touch of his hand--an indescribable something which of late had moved her in his presence, and made her faintly tremulous at the sound of his name.