That night, as Cedric and I sat at board with my father and mother, we were full of talk of the day’s doings; and I was already planning festival days and nights when the Carletons and the Mountjoys and all our friends of Pelham and of Mannerley should fore-gather at Mountjoy or at Teramore for feasts and dancing in such ways as had been in days of yore. Suddenly my mother interrupted all this talk and planning with a sober question: “And the Lady of Carleton—Geoffrey’s mother—did she greet thee full courteously to-day, Dickon?” At once I felt as one who treads in icy water where he had thought to meet firm ground. “Nay, mother. We saw her not at all—save for a glimpse at chamber window as we rode toward the drawbridge.” “Ah! then she was not abroad, it seems.” “Nay, she kept her chamber. Mayhap she was not well.” “Did Sir Geoffrey make for her her excuse?” My face, as I could feel, grew burning red as I made answer: “Nay, he said no word of her.” Then Lady Mountjoy turned to my father, who had been closely listening: “It seems, my lord, that we shall not soon ride toward Teramore.” My father sadly shook his head, and gazed at the board before him. He had been glad at heart at the thought of the healed breach between the two houses; and now it seemed that all such thoughts were vain. “Mayhap Lady Carleton will ride over with Sir Geoffrey when next week he comes to Mountjoy as he promised,” I offered. My father again shook his head. “Mayhap she will, Dickon. If so be, she shall have the right hand of welcome; but much I misdoubt her coming to Mountjoy. When all is said, ’tis but natural she cannot bring herself to call us friends. It was we of Mountjoy that did to death her husband and her eldest son; and though we know well, and have maintained it by oath and by arms, that ’twas in fair battle, on our part at least, and that they brought their deaths upon themselves, yet perhaps ’tis too much to expect her to credit our words and deeds that give the lie to those of her own house. Nay, I see it now. She will never be a friend of Mountjoy.” He sighed deeply and turned again to his carving. None of us had more words; and it seemed that a cold fog, like those that come from the Western Sea in springtime, had settled on our spirits. Four days later Sir Geoffrey came to Mountjoy, attended by a well-armed retinue; but his lady mother was not with him; and again he said no word of her. We made the young heir of Carleton full welcome to Mountjoy, and spent the day with meat and drink and the practice of arms. With the cross-bow he did even better than before, and showed himself not too dull a learner at the foils. But the gayety we had had at Teramore was not with us at Mountjoy. ’Twas as if some shriveled witch had envied us our merriment and put a spell upon us to destroy it. Something of this Sir Geoffrey seemed to feel at last; and the sun was yet three hours high when he took horse for his return.