As we emerged from the railway carriage, the first object that greeted my eyes was Sir Guy's great gaudy drag, with its three piebalds and a roan. The first tones that smote on my ear were those of his hoarse harsh voice (how it jarred upon my nerves!) in loud obstreperous welcome. "Thought you'd come by this train, Miss Coventry," shouted Sir Guy from the box, without making the slightest demonstration of descending; "laid Frank five to two on the event.--Done him again, hey, Frank--_I knew_ what you'd be up to; brought the drag over on purpose. Now then, give us your hand; one foot on the box, one on the roller-bolt, and now you're landed. Jones, my boy, get up behind. I've sent the van for servants and luggage. 'Gad! what a pretty maid you've got. Let 'em go, and sit tight!" So we rolled smoothly out, the piebalds shaking their harness and trotting merrily along, the roan placed on the off-side, for the purpose of sustaining whatever amount of punishment our charioteer thought fit to inflict. Behold me, then, seated on the box of Sir Guy Scapegrace's drag! a pretty position for a young lady who, during the last month or two, had been making daily resolutions of amendment as to _slang_ conduct and general levity of demeanour. How I hated myself, and loathed the very sight of _him_, as I looked at my companion. Sir Guy was redder and fatter than when I had seen him last; his voice was more dissonant, his neckcloth more alarming, his jewellery more prominent, his hat closer shaved and the flower in his mouth less like a flower than ever. How came I there? Why, because I was piqued, and hurt, and reckless. I was capable of almost any enormity. John's manner to me in the train had well-nigh driven me mad. So quiet, so composed, so cold, so kind and considerate, but a kindness and consideration such as that with which one treats a child. He seemed to feel he was my superior; he seemed even to soothe and pity me. I would have given worlds to have spoken frankly _out_ to him, to have asked him what I had done to offend him, even to have brought him back to that topic upon which I felt he would never enter more. But it was impossible. I dared not wound that kind, generous heart again--I dared not trust _myself_. No, he was only "Cousin John" now; he had said so himself. Surely he need not have given me up quite so easily; surely I was worthy of an effort at least: yet I _knew_ it had been my own fault--though I would not allow it even to myself--and this I believe it was that rankled and gnawed at my heart till I could hardly bear my own identity. It was a relief to do everything I could think of to annoy him. To heap self-contempt on my wicked head, to show him I was reckless of his good opinion as of my own, to lay up a store of agonizing reproaches for the future, to gnash my teeth, as it were, and nerve myself into a savage indifference for the present. Nay, there was even a diabolical _pleasure_ in it.