“I won’t go in. They can’t do anything to me if I don’t. Five o’clock! the very nicest time of all the day—the only time to see the city and the sun look at their best. It isn’t wrong of me; I know it isn’t. I haven’t done anything wrong that I should be a prisoner. I haven’t, really. I feel I haven’t!” The sunset deepened. Suddenly the great gates leading from the garden flew open to admit a dog-cart and one chestnut horse driven by Mr. Barringcourt. Behind him sat a groom, and as they took the sweep of drive leading past her toward the terrace steps, her eyes fell on the horse and man in livery. She saw that they did not belong to this place. What was there about everyone who lived here that made them different from all else? That groom was just the ordinary groom that one saw every day within the streets and parks. As Mr. Barringcourt passed below he suddenly looked up, and catching sight of her, took off his hat and smiled. Rosalie’s heart gave a leap of excitement. The flush of evening had dyed her pale cheeks, and given lustre to her eyes. She watched the light vehicle draw up below the central steps, saw Mr. Barringcourt dismount, and the groom lead the horse away by the shorter carriage drive. Rosalie clasped her hands and watched, and made no sign of moving down. And the sunset deepened. For one minute Mr. Barringcourt stood on the steps looking at his boots, or maybe on the ground, in apparent thoughtfulness; then he turned round with sudden decision, and crossed the lawn to the path leading towards the bank of flowers where she stood. Yet no step downward did Rosalie take in that direction, and so he came up the narrow, winding path, and very shortly reached her. And how different from all the others he appeared! How full of life and animation! how strong! how quick at seeing, and therefore understanding! How weak and lifeless her hand felt in his! And suddenly she felt that intense admiration for strength which all weak things must have. Yet she searched his face narrowly for that tired and weary look that she had seen there twice before. Her scrutiny was well returned. Out of the purity of a lonely spirit longing for some companionship her clear eyes had looked full into his, the ending of a day of weakness and tears and silent waiting. And under the deep scrutiny of those stronger eyes she had not power to look aside till every little secret not worth hiding had been read. Then having got rid of all the weakness, Rosalie came to the reserve strength. She drew her hand out of his, and asked suddenly, with an everyday interest: “Have you any horses of your own, Mr. Barringcourt, or do you hire them all?” “I have my own; but they’re too good for everyday work.” “But when do you exercise them?” “Occasionally at midnight I give them a run round. They are black, so they don’t show. Nor do they advertise their coming by too much noise.” This time she looked at him with puzzled incredulity. “What do you mean?”