'You are not to see baby,' she said from half-way down the stairs. 'But do come in, won't you?' 'Not to-night,' he said, going round his horse to tighten the saddle-girths. He glanced up involuntarily at the windows of Mrs. Severn's room. But no one was visible. Yet he had an impression that they were watched. 'I have got a new song that suits my voice exactly. Clothilde is going to accompany it,' said Anna. 'I will wait until then to hear it.' 'I thought you did not care for her accompaniments.' 'I don't, as a rule. But it does not signify much, either way.' 'I've heard you declare that everything, the most trivial, ought to have a decided significance in one direction,' said Anna, after a little pause of astonishment. 'So I have, I believe.' 'And I know you have a great contempt for inconsistency.' 'Yes.' 'You once said it was the brand of our human nature.' 'I must have been in a grandiloquent or dogmatic mood. Perhaps I often am. However, it is true. It is also its bane, and I confess I am guilty of it.' 'Oh no, I don't think so. I know you really prefer the piano with singing to either violin or guitar, but you are harassed over something, a bad case perhaps, and you don't care for music of any kind to-night. Forgive me for teasing a little.' There was a music in her tones for which he cared! She was standing on the steps with her hands behind her, and having busied himself with the saddle to a degree which he knew was ridiculous, he turned and glanced at her. She was critically examining his work; being able to ride bare-backed at a hand-gallop herself, she understood the points both of horse and accoutrements. He got his look at her, unperceived. It sent the blood from his face. 'How marvellously dear she is to me!' he thought, and was thankful to be able to think it coherently. He still had power over himself when he could frame his knowledge into words. He reasoned over it too. She was plain, she was little--not the ideal woman of his dreams. But his ideal woman had vanished long ago, and in her place--he knew well when--had come Anna Hugo with her heavy-browed, square-jawed face, her unruly mass of coarse dark hair, her deep-set scrutinising eyes, and that play of expression which tantalised him into wanting to know her every thought, because it showed him so many. Preparing to mount he glanced at her again. This time their eyes met. Hers were eloquent with unembarrassed kindness. His had a distressed look to which self-control gave a hardness unaccountable to her except on the one presumption. He was certainly in trouble. They were friends, she might be able to give a lighter turn to his thoughts. 'Let me walk to the gate with you,' she said. 'I want to hear about your ride.'