Sir Reginald, who was now recognised by many of the neighbouring gentry and farmers, who remembered him a lad on his pony, was cheered loudly as he piloted his horse through the crowd to the weighing-stand. Some of the neighbouring _élite_ came up and claimed his acquaintance, and overpowered him with congratulations. He received them with a distant politeness none knew how to assume better than himself, and declining various offers of luncheon, arm-in-arm with the radiant Captain Campell, made his way to the Fairfax landau, where he was received as a hero indeed. _This_ victory was something palpable, and Helen felt a pleasing consciousness that their carriage was the cynosure of many eyes and many opera-glasses, as her cousin shared the box-seat with Mary Ferrars. “Where is she?” was whispered behind more than one fan among the ladies on the stand. “How odd it is that he should have come into the neighbourhood! How handsome he is, and how much he is to be pitied, poor fellow!” The “poor fellow” made a capital luncheon, lost several pairs of gloves to the two ladies, and suddenly announced his intention of going home. “Going home?” echoed Geoffrey; “why there are two more races on the card. You are not serious?” he said, gazing at him with might and main. “I am, indeed; the best of the day is over, and I want to get off before the crowd begins to make a rush. You can all stay if you like.” “I’ll go with you,” said Captain Vaughan; “I’m sick of races, and we will jog home quietly and escape the dust.” Well he guessed his friend’s intention--he was going home to set his wife’s mind at rest, and he _was_. Her pale face and trembling fingers had risen up more than once reproachfully before his mind’s eye, and he felt both remorseful and penitent for his undoubted rudeness. Cautiously steering through the crowd, they were soon on their road home, smoking and discussing the events of the day as they trotted through the cool country lanes; both had the pleasing inward conviction that they were doing the “right thing.” Within a mile of Monkswood the sound of a horse galloping close by in a field arrested their attention. Soon he came in sight--a powerful raking chestnut, ridden by a lady. Pulling him up gradually to a canter, she trotted him up to a hog-backed stile, over which she landed him in the most workmanlike manner into the road, a hundred yards ahead of the dog-cart, which evidently was a vehicle not to his taste, for the instant he caught sight of it he turned sharp round and bolted in the opposite direction.