‘Of course I ought; but Sir Vernon does not see it in the same light. When I mildly suggested that I thought you wouldn’t mind lending me a horse—’ ‘Mind!’ cried Edgar. ‘That little mare of mine would carry you to perfection; and she’s so clever you’d have nothing to do but to sit upon her.’ ‘Exactly. It would be a foretaste of paradise. But at my hinting such a possibility my father gave me a look that almost annihilated me.’ ‘You may be more independently situated next season,’ suggested Mr. Goring, looking up from the billiard-table, where he was amusing himself with a few random strokes while Madoline was putting on her hat and jacket for a rustic ramble. ‘You may have your own stable, perhaps, and a nice sporting husband to look after it for you.’ Daphne reddened angrily at the suggestion; while poor Edgar put on his sheepish look, and took refuge at the billiard-table. ‘Are you coming out for a walk, Empress?’ asked Gerald carelessly. ‘I don’t know. It’s such dreary work prowling about a wintry landscape. I think I shall stay at home and read.’ ‘You’d better come,’ pleaded Edgar, feeling that he would not be allowed the perilous bliss of a _tête-à-tête_ afternoon with her, and that, if such bliss were permissible, the pleasure would be mixed with too deep a pain. Out in the fields and lanes, with Goring and Madoline, he might enjoy her society. She half consented to go, and then, discovering that Madoline was going to make some calls, changed her mind. ‘I’ll go to my room and finish my third volume,’ she said. ‘What a misanthrope you are, Daphne—a female Timon! I think I shall call you Timonia henceforward,’ retorted Gerald. ‘When it is a question of making ceremonious afternoon visits, I rather hate my fellow-creatures,’ replied Daphne, with charming frankness. ‘The nicest people one knows are not half so nice as the figments of fancy one meets in a book; and if the book-person waxes stupid, we can shut him up—which one can’t do to a living friend.’ So Daphne wished Mr. Turchill good-day, and went off to her own den—the pretty chintz-draperied bedroom, with its frivolities and individualities in the way of furniture and ornament, and its privileged solitude. Edgar, feeling that he might be a nuisance to the other two if he offered to accompany them, prepared to take his leave, yet with a lingering hope that Madoline would ask him to remain. Her kindness divined his wish, and she asked him to stay to dinner. ‘You’re very kind,’ he faltered, having dined at South Hill once in the current week, and sorely afraid that he was degenerating into a sponge, ‘but I’ve got a fellow to see at Warwick; I shall have to dine with him. But if you’ll let me come back in the evening for a game at billiards?’ ‘Let you? Why, Edgar, you know my father is always glad to see you.’ ‘He is very good—only—I’m afraid of becoming a nuisance. I can’t help hanging about the place.’ ‘We are always pleased to have you here—all of us.’