He led her down the staircase to the hall door where the horses were waiting, and he saw the sudden flash of joyful recognition that crossed her face. “Guy!” she exclaimed, “my own little Guy!” Yes, there could be no mistake about it; it was her own little delicate thorough-bred, standing with ill-repressed excitement at the door, his glossy neck arched in a sort of proud impatience, his supple limbs trembling with eagerness, as he stepped daintily to and fro upon the pavement. He turned his shapely head at the sound of Monica’s voice, pricked his ears, and uttered a low whinney of joyful recognition. “It was good of you to think of it, Randolph,” she said, a softer light in her eyes as she turned them towards her husband. “It is like a little bit of home having him.” “I thought you would like him better than a stranger, though I have his counterpart in the stable waiting for you to try. He has been regularly exercised in Piccadilly every morning, and I coaxed him to let me ride him once myself in the Park, though he did not much like it. I don’t think he will be very troublesome now, and I know you are not afraid of his restive moods; though this is very different from Trevlyn.” Monica’s eyes grew wistful, and her husband saw it. He guessed whither her thoughts had fled, and he let her dream on undisturbed. He exchanged bows with many acquaintances as they passed onwards and entered the Row, and many admiring glances were levelled at his beautiful young wife, whose unusual loveliness and perfect horsemanship alike attracted attention; but he attempted no introductions; and Monica, dreamy and absorbed, noticed nothing, till the sight of Conrad in the Row awoke her to consciousness of her surroundings. Conrad in London! How long had he been there? Did he bring news from Trevlyn? She looked almost wistfully at Randolph as she returned the young baronet’s bow, but his face wore its rather stern expression, and she dared not attempt to speak with her former friend. Conrad, however, saw the look, and smiled to himself. “My day will come yet,” he said. “Shall we push on, Monica?” asked Randolph. “Guy is aching to stretch his limbs.” Monica was only too willing, and they had soon reached the farther end of the Row, which was much less full than the other had been. A pretty, dark, vivacious looking girl, accompanied by a fair-haired young man, rather like her, were approaching with glances of recognition. “Randolph, I am angry with you—yes, very angry. You have been a whole fortnight in town—I heard so yesterday—and we have never seen you once, and you have never let me have the pleasure of an introduction to your wife. I call it very much too bad!”