“He has had the reins in his hand oftener than either I or you,” said Mr. Brownlow. The fact was he said it at hazard, thinking it most likely that Powys could drive, but knowing nothing more about it, while Jack knew by sight and vision, and felt himself in his heart a snob as he strolled away from the door. He was uncomfortable, but he succeeded in making his father more uncomfortable still. The mare, too, was his own, though it was Jack’s favorite, and if he liked to have it he might. Such was the Parthian arrow which Mr. Brownlow received at the end of the day. Clearly that was a distant land--a land far removed from the present burden of civilization--a primitive and blessed state of existence, in which a man could be permitted to do what he liked with his own. CHAPTER XXII. THE DOWNFALL OF PHILOSOPHY. Jack Brownlow was having a very hard time of it just at that moment. There had been a lapse of more than a week, and he had not once seen the fair little creature of whom every day he had thought more and more. It was in vain that he looked up at the window--Pamela now was never there. He never saw her even at a distance--never heard so much as her name. Sara, who had been ready enough to speak of her friend--even Sara, indiscreet, and hasty, and imprudent--was silent. Poor Jack knew it was quite right--he recognized, even though he hated it, the force that was in his father’s arguments. He knew he had much better never see her--never even speak of her again. He understood with his intelligence that utter separation between them was the only prudent and sensible step to be taken; but his heart objected to understand with a curious persistency which Jack could scarcely believe of a heart of his. He had found his intellect quite sufficient to guide him up to this period; and when that other part of him, with which he was so much less acquainted, fought and struggled to get the reins in hand, it would be difficult to express the astonishment he felt. And then he was a young man of the present day, and he was not anxiously desirous to marry. A house of his own, with all its responsibilities, did not appear to him the crown of delight which perhaps it ought to have done. He was content to go on with his life as it had been, without any immediate change. It still appeared to him, I am sorry to admit, that for a young man, who had a way to make in the world, a very early marriage was a sort of suicidal step to take. This was all very well for his mind, which wanted no convincing. But for his heart it was very different. That newly discovered organ behaved in the most incomprehensible sort of way. Even though it possibly gave a grunt of consent to the theory about marriage, it kept on longing and yearning, driving itself frantic with eagerness just to see her, just to hear her, just to touch her little hand, just to feel the soft passing rustle of her dress. That was all. And as for talking reason to it, or representing how profitless such a