"Another! I should think so. That last great thing wouldn't go at all. How d'ye do, Mr Ibbetson? I didn't see it was you. But really, Sir John, we are in a pretty condition; reduced to the butcher's mare to take, us to the station, and when we want to cut a dash among our neighbours, to the most extraordinary affair from Hedsworth. Do be neighbourly and look in at our stables. You'll find three waiting to be looked at, and they've all something against them. One has curby hocks, I know--whatever that may mean." "It means a strong objection." "Well, the other alternatives are age and nobility of appearance, and youth and snobbishness. I am inclined to youth; the habit of requiring to be shot is very serious." "I'll give my opinion at any rate," said Sir John laughing, "and so shall Jack. By the way, he has just come from Rome, and seems to have met your Mr Penington there--" "Has he, really? Mr Penington is our other subject just now; he and the horses form a sort of conversational see-saw. Very charming, is he not, Mr Ibbetson? But you need not tell me if he is not, for we all agree in placing him on a pinnacle of merit, in order that we may have the excitement of gradually deposing him. Otherwise, I might whisper to you that we are already--just a little--hurt." "Why?" "Well, we considered--and justly, I think--that coming here unmarried, we had a right to the excitement of choosing him a wife. But in a letter from his sister to Mrs Hastings, who is, you know, her old friend, she seems to hint that he is taking it on his own shoulders." "Oh, ho! Any names mentioned? Perhaps Jack may know her, too." "No, no, not so bad as that. Still it is bad, I own. You'll look at those horses then, won't you?" "To be sure. How was it you weren't at the Grange on Friday?" "I was making up my accounts. I always think that is only a decent tribute to the departing year. Remember me to Lady Ibbetson, and do try to consider that horse a treasure." Sir John, who liked the Wards, went on talking of the way women were taken in about horses, Jack meanwhile riding along without hearing many of his father's words. So it had come to this, for he could not doubt that Phillis was the one to whom Miss Penington alluded. There was the pretty Vicarage to his left, standing picturesquely among trees, a pleasant homelike place, such as he could well imagine she would love. He thought of her, brought there by that man, going in and out of the gate on her kindly errands, waiting, perhaps, in the porch to welcome him--Well, what could he say? He had had his chance and had thrown it away. Since he had loved her, he had understood very clearly what she had found wanting in his love before. Now it seemed to him as if it had been an insult. He felt no hope. He had had his chance and had thrown it away. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A RETURN.