She was very adventurously inclined--as James might know! but not with a Mr. Urquhart necessarily: therefore she hesitated. "Oh, I don't really know--" Urquhart laughed. "Be bold--be bold--be not too bold. Well, there it is. I start for the Newmarket road at eleven to-morrow--but I'll fetch you for twopence. Ask _him_." He jerked his head forward towards James, on whose arm her hand rested. Lucy looked up at her romantic lord--a look which might have made a man proud. But James may have been proud enough already. At any rate, he didn't see her look, but was genial to Urquhart--over whom he considered that he had triumphed in the library. "Sooner her than me," he said. "I know that she likes it and so advise her to go. But I should die a thousand deaths." "She won't," said Urquhart; and then to Lucy, "Well, ma'am?" Her eyes assented before she did. "Very well, I'll come. I dare say it will be delightful." "Oh, it will," he said. Still he rambled on--plain, grumbling, easy, familiar talk, while Lucy fumed and fidgeted to be alone with her joy and pride. "Your handsome sister has asked me to hunt in Essex. Don't like hunting, but I do like her--and there's a great deal waiting to be done at Martley. I don't know. We'll talk about it to-morrow." Then he asked her, "Would she come and look at Martley?" It seemed she had half promised. She said, "Oh, yes, of course." Nothing of that kind seemed very important. But James here looked down at her, which made it different. "We might go at Whitsuntide," he said. She looked deeply up--deeply into him, so to speak. "Very well, we will. If you'll come." "Oh, he'll come," Urquhart said; and James, "I should like it." So that was settled. Heavens, how she wished these people would go. She could see that Francis Lingen wanted to be asked to stay to dine, but she didn't mean to have that. So when Urquhart held out his hand with a blunt "Good night to you," she let hers hover about Francis as if his was waiting for it--which it wasn't, but had to be. "Oh, good night," said the embarrassed exquisite, and forgot to be tender. James picked up the evening paper and was flickering his eye over the leading articles, like a searchlight. Lucy, for her part, hovered quick-footed in his neighbourhood. This was her hour of triumph, and she played with it. She peeped at the paper over his shoulder till he said, "Please," and moved it. Her fingers itched to touch his hair, but very prudently refrained. She was too restless to settle to anything, and too happy to wish it. If she had been a singing-bird she would have trilled to the piano; but she had not a note of music. The dressing-gong gave her direction. There was plenty to be done. "The gong! I'm going to make myself smart, James. Quite smart. Are you coming up?" James had the paper open in the middle. "Eh? Oh, there's lots of time--run away. I'm rather busy."