Edgar thanked her warmly. He had fallen into a dejected condition; fancying himself of less account than the rest of men since Daphne had spurned him; a creature to be scorned and trampled under foot. Nor did Daphne’s easy kindness give him any comfort. She had resumed her tone of sisterly friendship. She seemed to forget that he had ever proposed to her. She was serenely unconscious that he was breaking his heart for her. Why could he not get himself killed, or desperately hurt in the hunting-field, so that she might be sorry for him? He was almost angry with his horses for being such clever jumpers, and never putting his neck in peril. A purl across a bullfinch, a broken collar-bone, might melt that obdurate heart. And a man may get through life very well with a damaged collar-bone. ‘I’m afraid the collar-bone wouldn’t be enough,’ mused Edgar. ‘It doesn’t sound romantic. A broken arm, worn in a sling, might be of some use.’ He would have suffered anything, hazarded anything, to improve his chances. He tried to lure Daphne to Hawksyard again; tempting her with the stables, the dogs, the poultry-yard; but it was no use. She had always some excuse for declining his or his mother’s invitations. She would not even accompany Lina when she went to call upon Mrs. Turchill. She had an idea that Edgar was in the habit of offering his hand and heart to every young lady visitor. ‘He made such an utter idiot of himself the night we dined there,’ she said to Lina. ‘I shall never again trust myself upon his patrimonial estate. On neutral ground I haven’t the least objection to him.’ ‘Daphne, is it kind to speak of him like that, when you know that he was thoroughly in earnest?’ ‘He was thoroughly in earnest about you before. True love cannot change like that.’ ‘Yet I am convinced that he is true, Daphne,’ Lina answered seriously. Autumn slipped into winter. There was a light frost every night, and in the misty mornings the low meadows glittered whitely with a thin coating of rime, which vanished with those early mists. There was no weather cold enough to curdle the water in the shallow pond yonder by the plantation, or to stop Lord Willoughby’s hounds. Daphne sighed in vain for the delight of skating.