Somehow, Alice’s attempts at explanation or reconciliation were always failures. Her husband declined to meet her halfway. He looked so cold and so unsympathetic that the words that came trembling to her lips died away unspoken, frozen into silence by the icy chilliness of his demeanour. Firm and intrepid resolutions she had made to brave him came to nothing when she found herself alone with him face to face. He would talk on any other topic but themselves--their past. He cantered up the lane in front of her without even turning his head. Had he glanced backwards, he would have seen what would have surprised him considerably--Alice hastily searching in the saddle-pocket for her handkerchief and furtively wiping away some distinctly visible tears. The long grass lane terminated in a locked gate--a gate opening on the Manister road--over which Cardigan showed the way in gallant style, closely followed by the bay and blue habit. “Oh how pretty! How easy it looks!” exclaimed Mary Ferrars, as she and Geoffrey trotted up just in time to witness the performance. “It’s not often you see a married couple ride like _that_,” returned Geoffrey complacently, “and it’s just the only subject on which they agree.” They all rode into the town together, where they again divided--Geoffrey and Mary to go to the confectioner’s--an errand for Maurice--Alice and Reginald to despatch a telegram. When they came to the post-office, two carriages were already drawn up, containing some of the Steepshire _monde_. They favoured Alice and her cavalier with an impertinent stare, or looked over her head with fixed attention. One old lady adjusted her pince-nez, and amused herself by staring Alice out of countenance. When her husband had despatched the telegram he came out, and saw at a glance the contemptuous looks levelled at his wife, her burning cheeks and downcast eyes. In a second he grasped the situation, and turning on the carriages a look of scathing indignation, he mounted his horse, and, unintentionally ramming in the spurs, that fiery animal became almost unmanageable, and, rearing erect, nearly overbalanced into one of the landaus; but having regained his equilibrium, went plunging violently down the street. “Who is the young man she has the effrontery to ride with?” asked the old lady with the glasses. “Don’t know, I’m sure. Looks like a cavalry man,” responded her daughter languidly. “Better ask Smith.” Mr. Smith, postmaster, who was standing at his shop-door, looking after the equestrians, and briskly rubbing his hands, said, in reply to her question: “Certainly, ma’am, certainly,” clearing his throat and preparing to deliver what he knows will be a startling announcement. “You mean the gentleman on the chestnut horse, just turning into Market Street?” An eager nod of assent. “That is Sir Reginald, Lady Fairfax’s husband.” “Impossible!” “Well, ma’am, he has just sent off a telegram in that name.” Sensation!