“But you are a little rusty, for all that. You’re not so free and easy with me as you used to be. I suppose you’ve heard something new. I can’t get on with people--especially women--who won’t take me just as I am. You’re beginning to disapprove of me, I can see that.” “My dear Mr. Lacour, I have always disapproved of you--in a measure.” “Of course; but the measure is extending. There’s something in your tone I don’t like. I always say yours is the one woman’s voice I would walk a mile to hear, and to-day it has lost something of its quality for me.” “I grieve exceedingly--except that henceforth you will be saved from the terrible temptation to over-exert yourself. But hadn’t we better talk seriously? What can I advise upon?” “Well, it has come to this. Either I go on to the stage, or I go to Texas. Which do you recommend?” “Of the two, Texas.” “That is not complimentary, you know.” “I only mean it to be sincere. And I think it not unlikely that you would do well in Texas. You need that kind of shaking up.” “On the other hand, my advantages are thrown away,” remarked Vincent, stroking his chin. He spoke with the completest frankness; it was scarcely possible to call the speech conceited. “I doubt whether you have any advantages for the stage,” said Isabel gravely. “But, my dear Mrs. Clarendon--------” The talk was interrupted. Lady Florence Cootes came running up. “Oh, Mrs. Clarendon, I had all but forgotten! I am charged with a message for you from my father. He bids me tell you that he has won his bet, and that it _was_ Charibert won the Two Thousand the year before last. It seems you had an argument about it. Do tell me what you’ve lost?” “I can’t, because I don’t know,” replied Isabel merrily. “You don’t know? Have you forgotten what the bet was?” “The stakes were kept secret. If I won I was to ask for anything I chose; if Lord Winterset won he was to do the same.” “If Lord Winterset originated that,” observed Vincent, “he’s an uncommonly shrewd man. I shall introduce the idea forthwith to all my female acquaintances.” Lady Florence turned away, with the face of an English virgin. “Not with mention of the source, Mr. Lacour,” said Isabel, in a manner which he could not misunderstand. And she moved away to mingle with other ladies, a slight shade of vexation on her countenance. Lacour rose with rather a sour face, and strolled across the lawn, looking about him as if in search of some one. Apparently his search was unsuccessful. The sun was still warm, and he sought for a shady spot, eventually getting to the east side of the house, the opposite to that where the tennis-court lay. A yew-tree hedge divided this part of the garden from the front lawn, and it was free of people. Vincent found himself by the library window, which was low, not more than three feet from the ground. The window standing wide open, he glanced in, and no sooner had done so than he laid his hands upon the sill and neatly vaulted into the room.