‘Confound you!’ burst from Otho’s lips, and his voice trembled, with what emotion Eleanor could not guess. ‘You made me think—what do you want, loafing about here?’ ‘I am doing no such thing as loafing,’ said the young woman in high dudgeon. I am a respectable woman, and I was going to ask you a civil question—that’s all. But I’ll go farther on, now.’ She turned away, indignation quivering in her every movement. Otho stood still a moment, Eleanor noticed, as she breathlessly watched and listened, with his hand resting against the door pillar, as if to support himself. And she saw that he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow; and she heard something muttered between his teeth, and then the words, ‘cursed hole like this!’ Then he came into the house, for the door opened from the outside, and she mechanically went out to meet him, disturbed more than she would have cared to own. For whom, for what had he mistaken the young woman, that he should show such alarm and such fear? He was standing in the hall, having laid his hat upon the table, and was pulling off his overcoat. His face was quite white, or rather, gray, and his eyes looked wild and startled. ‘Halloa!’ said he, evidently with an effort—at least, it was evident to her now that she knew what had gone before. ‘How are you? Has Magdalen come?’ ‘No. I am expecting her every minute,’ she replied. ‘Ah, there are the carriage wheels. She is here now.’ Otho was now master of himself again. He waited in the hall till Magdalen had come in, and received her, looking into her eyes with a sort of eagerness, and kissing her as he looked at her. The evening proved, in a way, less depressing than Eleanor had expected. Magdalen was unusually sweet and gracious; Otho more genial and expansive than his sister had ever seen him. Magdalen openly and unreservedly put questions to him about his affairs and intentions, which Eleanor would never have dreamed of asking. He was not very explicit as to his business, but said it was business that brought him to Thorsgarth, adding with candour that nothing else would induce him to set foot in the place, for he had got a horror of it. From some hints that he let fall, the two young women gathered that his stables and stud were to come to the hammer—when, he did not say. Also, that he was at present somewhat straitened for any considerable sum of money. But he did not hint at any wish to borrow money, or receive assistance, only saying that Gilbert would see him safe through present difficulties, and that the Friarsdale stables would bring in ‘a pot of money.’ ‘I’m going to Friarsdale to-morrow,’ he added, ‘and back here the same night. The day after, I’m off again.’ ‘Are you? Where?’ ‘London first. Then Paris, I expect. I’ve got some business there,’ he condescended to inform them, ‘in connection with the _Grand Prix_ next spring.’ ‘Racing again!’ said Magdalen. ‘But you’ve got no horse in it.’ ‘Yes, but I have. I’ve Crackpot again.’