In a few moments, Isabel too moved away. She had but to appear in the centre of the room to attract half-a-dozen loiterers. Never had her social instincts triumphed as they did now; never had she governed herself with such perfection of skill. For five minutes she was an enchantress. Then she drew aside, and presently had disappeared. At the appointed time and place, Kingcote saw the carriage pulling up for him, Edgar Stratton having ridden his pony on before. It was a dull morning, but perfect for hunting purposes, as Mr. Vissian declared when Kingcote chatted with him for a moment in front of the rectory. The two ladies seemed in excellent spirits; they wore their habits, ready to mount the horses which would have reached Salcot before them. Mrs. Clarendon pressed Kingcote’s hand warmly when he had taken his seat opposite her, held it a moment longer than was necessary, indeed, and looked with earnestness into his face. The night had been sleepless for her, but whatever traces her watching might have left had at once been carried away by the air which breathed past the light-speeding vehicle. She talked and laughed without ceasing; the prospect of a delightful day appeared entirely to occupy her. On Mrs. Stratton’s making some reference to an engagement for the morrow, “Oh, I can’t look so far forward!” Isabel exclaimed. “To-day is only beginning; what is the good of remembering that it will ever come to an end?” “That reminds me,” said Kingcote, “of those stories of impious huntsmen, who wished to ride on for ever, and had the wish terribly granted.” “I am not sure that I shouldn’t follow their example, whoever offered me the choice,” Isabel said. “Ah, it is good to get rid of the world! To forget everything but the delight of your headlong speed!” “At all events,” said Kingcote, “it is a form of dissipation which brings no headache on the morrow.” “Now, you too talk of the morrow! Perish the word! I live in to-day. Who knows what may happen before nightfall? I may be killed.” Kingcote’s ear was struck with something singular in the note of these last words. When he looked at Isabel she did not avert her eyes, but smiled with a touching familiarity. “Have you news from London?” she asked of him unexpectedly. “Yes; things are still bad.” “I am very sorry.” He had never heard conventional politeness so sweetly expressed; there was a real sorrow in her voice.