Seymour Jocelyn, Mrs. Evremonde, Drummond, Jenny Graine, and William Harvey, rode with Mr. George in quest of the carriage, and the captive was duly delivered over. “But where’s the brush?” said Lady Jocelyn, laughing, and introducing him to the Countess, who dropped her head, and with it her veil. “Oh! they leave that on for my next run,” said Mr. George, bowing civilly. “You are going to run again?” Miss Carrington severely asked this question; and Mr. George protested. “Secure him, Louisa,” said Lady Jocelyn. “See here: what’s the matter with poor Dorothy?” Dorothy came slowly trotting up to them along the green lane, and thus expressed her grief, between sobs: “Isn’t it a shame? Rose is such a tyrant. They’re going to ride a race and a jump down in the field, and it’s break-neck leap, and Rose won’t allow me to stop and see it, though she knows I’m just as fond of Evan as she is; and if he’s killed I declare it will be her fault; and it’s all for her stupid, dirty old pocket handkerchief!” “Break-neck fence!” said Lady Jocelyn; “that’s rather mad.” “Do let’s go and see it, darling Aunty Joey,” pleaded the little maid. Lady Jocelyn rode on, saying to herself: “That girl has a great deal of devil in her.” The lady’s thoughts were of Rose. “Black Lymport’d take the leap,” said Mr. George, following her with the rest of the troop. “Who’s that fellow on him?” “His name’s Harrington,” quoth Drummond. “Oh, Harrington!” Mr. George responded; but immediately laughed—“Harrington? ’Gad, if he takes the leap it’ll be odd—another of the name. That’s where old Mel had his spill.” “Who?” Drummond inquired. “Old Mel Harrington—the Lymport wonder. Old Marquis Mel,” said Mr. George. “Haven’t ye heard of him?” “What! the gorgeous tailor!” exclaimed Lady Jocelyn. “How I regret never meeting that magnificent snob! that efflorescence of sublime imposture! I’ve seen the Regent; but one’s life doesn’t seem complete without having seen his twin-brother. You must give us warning when you have him down at Croftlands again, Mr. George.” “’Gad, he’ll have to come a long distance—poor old Mel!” said Mr. George; and was going on, when Seymour Jocelyn stroked his moustache to cry, “Look! Rosey’s starting ’em, by Jove!” The leap, which did not appear formidable from where they stood, was four fields distant from the point where Rose, with a handkerchief in her hand, was at that moment giving the signal to Laxley and Evan. Miss Carrington and the Countess begged Lady Jocelyn to order a shout to be raised to arrest them, but her ladyship marked her good sense by saying: “Let them go, now they’re about it”; for she saw that to make a fuss now matters had proceeded so far, was to be uncivil to the inevitable.