Florence’s first impulse was to refuse. Next she wondered why. She was too nervous to be still. She felt, all at once, it would be a great relief to see the riders come in safely. Could she wait till after midnight to be sure of—of what would quiet this senseless uneasiness? She was so sure that it was best to go, she could hardly credit her own refusal. It made Cissy stare. Her look was a mixture of incredulity and relief. It gave Florence a faint amusement in the midst of her abstraction. With Cissy had returned the rasping confusion that had been with the rush of the riders, but it did not depart with her. Standing solitary, among the laurustinus bushes, Florence felt the impetus of it about her. She watched the fog gathering in, inclosing land and sea in an ever-narrowing ring. She caught herself wondering if by chance one of the long fingers had caught the hunt in its hook. Suddenly her restlessness, her unease, was crystallized into a sharp anxiety. Was it also an expectation? She heard the party for the club-house drive away with relief. Why hadn’t she gone with them? What was she waiting for? A veil was drawn over the burning disk of the sun as he dipped near the ocean. She was chilled with the fine approach of the fog. She walked slowly back toward the house, turning once, and once again, to look behind her at the vanishing line of coast. She shivered, covering her head with her black Spanish lace and drawing it close over the bosom of the white gown that she had forgotten to change. She had forgotten time that day. As much had crowded into a few hours as might fill a life. Henceforth time would be too much with her. Her foot was on the veranda step when she saw a pink coat turn in at the drive gate. She strained her eyes. Charlie Thair—and without a hat. She had never before seen him, out-of-doors, without a hat. As he drew up the drive at a quick canter, she thought he had reined in a yet quicker pace. She stood, arrested in mid-motion, turning to him a face that was a question. He was the first to speak, hailing her while barely within distance, as if to make sure of the first word. “Where is Mrs. Budd, Mrs. Essington?” “She drove over to the country club with the others to see the finish. What—” “Thank God! Are you the only one here?” “Yes. What is it?” “Did they take the victoria?” “No; who is hurt?” He only looked at her. “Is it—is it—” she put her hand to her throat—“_Julia?_” she brought out desperately. “No, _not_ Julia.” He looked at her very keenly, very kindly. He need not have spoken the name that followed. She knew before she heard. She got her breath with a sobbing sound, pressing her hand to her side.