The other letter was of a widely different type; it bore no seal, but a scarlet monogram so elaborately involved as to be nearly illegible; after careful study of its intricacies, with a certain amount of luck, you might have made out the initials N. R. L. There was a _mignardise_ about the whole thing quite in keeping with the handwriting--slender, sloping, and essentially feminine; at the same time there was a good deal of _character_ about it; without much practice in graphiology, one guessed at once that those lines had been traced by fingers long, lithe, and lissome--fingers that either in love or hate would close round yours--pliant and tenacious as the coils of a Java serpent--fingers apt at weaving webs to entangle men's senses and souls. Alan took these letters up in the order in which we have named them. The first was evidently very brief; as he read it, an odd smile came on his lip, not altogether of amusement, but rather bitter and constrained; just such a smile as one might put on to mask a momentary discomfiture, if, in a contest of polite repartee, one had received a home thrust, without seeing exactly how to _riposter_. The other envelope contained two full note-sheets, one of which (of course) was crossed. Wyverne just glanced at the first page and the last few lines, and then, putting it back into its cover, laid it down with the rest; it was quite natural that he should thus defer the perusal, for, however well he might have known the handwriting, ten minutes of undivided attention could scarcely have carried him through it. A very close observer might have detected just then a slight darkening and contraction of his brows; but the change lasted not five seconds, and then his face became pleasant and tranquil as ever. "Well, that is over, or nearly so," he said, drawing rather a long breath. "Did anybody ever see such a day for riding? I feel the Tartar humour on me, Helen--do you sympathize? If so, we'll let our correspondence take thought for the things of itself--_I_ don't intend to put pen to paper to-day--and go forth on a real pilgrimage, trusting to fate for luncheon. There's not an atom too much sun, and the breeze might have been made to order." Perhaps the movement of Alan's arm, which pushed two or three of his letters off the table, was quite involuntary; and perhaps quite unintentionally, when he picked them up, he placed the _last_ undermost: but the eyes of Lynceus were not keener-sighted than those dark languid orbs, held by many to be the crowning glory of Helen Vavasour's beauty. Neither the change in her cousin's face, nor one detail of the apparent accident escaped her; and it is possible that she drew from them her own conclusions. Probably they were not very serious ones, and perhaps his careless tone contributed to reassure her; at any rate, nothing could be brighter than her face as she answered--