“Do you dare me?” with an eager step forward. “Good-bye.” “Good-bye! I say, are you sure you can find the Renwood cottage?” he called after her. The answer came back through the clatter of hoofs, accompanied by a smile that seduced his self-possession. “I shall find it in time.” For a long time he stood watching her as she raced down the road. “At my peril,” he mused, shaking his head with a queer smile. “By George, that's fair warning enough. She's beautiful.” At dinner that night the Honourable Penelope restored the watch to her brother, much to his embarrassment, for he had told the duke it was being repaired in town. “It was n't this watch that I meant, old chap,” he announced, irrelevantly, to the duke, quite red in the face. “Where did you find it, Pen?” She caught the plea in his eye and responded loyally. “You dropped it, I daresay, in pursuing Mr. Shaw.” The positive radiance which followed dismay in his watery eyes convinced her beyond all doubt that her brother's encounter with the tall Mr. Shaw was not quite creditable to Bazelhurst arms. She listened with pensive indifference to the oft-repeated story of how he had routed the “insufferable cad,” encouraged by the support of champagne and the solicited approval of two eye-witnesses. She could not repress the mixed feelings of scorn, shame, and pity, as she surveyed the array of men who so mercilessly flayed the healthy, fair-faced young man with the gentle strength. The house party had been augmented during the day by the arrival of half a dozen men and women from the city, brain-fagged, listless, and smart. The big cottage now was full, the company complete for three weeks at least. She looked ahead, this fresh, vigorous young Englishwoman, and wondered how she was to endure the staleness of life. There was some relief in the thought that the men would make love to the good-looking young married women--at least part of the time--and--but it depressed her in turn to think of the left-over husbands who would make love to her. “Why is it that Evelyn does n't have real men here--like this Mr. Shaw?” she found herself wondering vaguely as the night wore on. CHAPTER III--IN WHICH A DOG TRESPASSES Penelope was a perverse and calculating young person. She was her own mistress and privileged to ride as often as she pleased, but it seemed rather odd--although splendidly decorous--that she did not venture upon Mr. Shaw's estate for more than a week after her first encounter with the feudal baron. If she found a peculiarly feminine satisfaction in speculating on his disappointment, it is not to be wondered at. Womanly insight told her that Randolph Shaw rode forth each day and watched with hawk-like vigilance for the promised trespasser. In her imagination, she could almost hear him curse the luck that was helping her to evade the patrol.