With a look of unqualified amazement he divided his heap of counters into two portions, and without a single remark pushed one of them towards Alice. In doing so she observed for the first time a deep scar across his wrist. “What is that dreadful cut, Reginald?” she asked timidly. “Nothing,” he replied shortly, pulling down his shirt-cuff and rapidly dealing out the cards. “One of his many honourable scars,” explained Geoffrey. “It’s an uncommonly deep sabre cut he got that time he took the standard, and only----” “Never mind standards and scratches, but go on with the game,” interrupted Reginald with a tinge of asperity in his tone; “it’s you to lead, Geoffrey.” “I say, Rex,” returned Geoffrey, as if struck by a happy thought as he leisurely sorted his hand, “wouldn’t it be fun if you were to give a lecture, a _public_ lecture, on the Afghan war, say in the Assembly Room at Manister? It would fill like mad, and you might send the proceeds----” “To an asylum for idiots,” interrupted Sir Reginald impatiently. “Will you play or not, Geoffrey?” “I’ll play, of course!” returned that youth tranquilly, “but why should we not temper cards with conversation? Here”--nodding towards Alice--“I play the Queen of Hearts!” * * * * * After breakfast the next morning, the ladies of the party sauntered about the garden and grounds. An easy-chair, a cigar, and _The Times_ supplied the Honorable Mark’s requirements. Sir Reginald, declining Geoffrey’s challenge to a game of tennis, repaired to the library to write letters. Alice having done the honours of the garden and shown Helen the most reliable fruit trees, ran back to the house for a basket, in order to gather some plums for dessert. In returning, she nearly came into collision with her husband at the garden-gate. Very much to her surprise he accosted her, saying: “Alice, the carriage-horses and cobs will be here this evening. I beg that you will not send them away again.” “But they are of no use to me, really. Auntie has her ponies, and I never drive.” “But for the use of your visitors, and returning calls, a carriage is indispensable.” “I never have any visitors, nor have I any calls to return.” “Pray why not?” “No one has called on me. Is not that an excellent excuse?” “Am I to understand that you have no acquaintances?” “With the exception of the clergyman’s family and the Ruffords, who live at the other end of the county, and the Grantleys, who are abroad--I may say, none.” “Is this by your own wish?” “Well, no; not that I care two straws for society, but I will not conceal from you”--with a faint smile and drawing a pattern on the gravel with her pretty little shoe--“that I am _not_ a social success.” “Do you mean me to understand that you are what is called ‘not visited’?” “If you look at it in that light, I suppose I am _not_,” she replied, glancing towards the garden-gate, and moving a few steps in its direction.