“Well, I’m sure Mr. Skelton is quite welcome to hear anything I have to say. I say he never knows any news--and so he does not, Mr. Shapleigh. Mr. Skelton may be able to write a great philosophical work that will lose his own soul, I haven’t the slightest doubt, but as for knowing what’s going on in the county--why, he knows no more than my shoe. But Sylvia thinks he’s delightful, news or no news.” “There you go,” apostrophised Mr. Shapleigh, taking out his big snuff-box and indulging himself in a huge pinch. Blair usually would have been highly amused at Mrs. Shapleigh, and would have wickedly kept her upon the ticklish subject. Instead, however, a strange, intense look flashed into his countenance as he quietly turned his eyes full on his wife’s face. Elizabeth grew pale. If Skelton was to be married to Sylvia Shapleigh--and there had been much talk about it lately--the crisis was at hand. Old Tom knew there was a mystery about the disposition of the main part of Skelton’s money in the event of his death or marriage, and thought it not unlikely that the Blairs would have an interest in it. So, as they sat there, simple country gentry as they were, leading the quietest provincial lives, and talking about their every-day affairs, there was that mixture of tragedy that is seldom absent from the comedy of life. Mrs. Shapleigh went into another long-winded explanation of why they had determined at the last minute to give up the trip to the Springs. At every reason she gave Mr. Shapleigh grinned more and more incredulously; but, when she got up to go, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Blair was in the slightest doubt as to the real reason. Blair put Mrs. Shapleigh into the carriage, gave old Tom an arm, and came back in the house to his wife. Elizabeth saw in a moment that a subtile change had come over him. Since he had given up the race course and had devoted himself to the plantation he had looked a different man. An expression of peace had come into his ruddy, mobile face; he was no longer hunted and driven by creditors of the worst kind; he did not live, as he once had, on the frightful edge of expecting a horse’s legs to give out, or his wind, or something equally important. It is true that he was haunted by the possible fortune, but it did not keep him from attending to his legitimate business, as horse racing had done. Now, however, his face was full of lines; some fierce, sensual self seemed to have come uppermost and to have altogether changed him. Elizabeth remembered about that black horse, and she began to think how long would Blair be able to keep off the turf with money in his pockets. And if he should get so much money as the Skelton fortune would be, Mrs. Blair’s feminine good sense told her unerringly that it would not be good for Blair. “Well,” he said, standing up before her in the cool drawing-room, darkened at midday from the August sun, “Skelton is going to be married to Sylvia Shapleigh. There is no earthly doubt about it.”