At last the delicate beauty, seeing Adonis faint in the chase--for Ingram, as a lover, was languid and gloomy--was helped into her lacy draperies, helped into the carriage, driven to the station; and Ingram, on horseback, rode by her side. He helped her into the train, stored her with magazines, kissed her mouth, revolted at her tears, and returned sulkily, with hard-rimmed eyes, at a foot's pace to his halls. Midway of the carriage-drive, instinctively, he tightened the rein; for Glyde stepped out of the undergrowth some ten paces ahead, and stood, waiting for him. He was dressed, not for the garden (in shirt-sleeves and baize), but in his blacks, and had a soft felt hat on his head, basin-shaped, with the brim over his eyes. “Now what the devil does that chap want, play-acting here?” was Ingram's enquiry of the Universe. Glyde, as the horse drew level, came within touch of his flank, and told Ingram that he wished to speak with him. “Eh?” said Ingram; and then, “oh, what a nuisance.” He felt himself injured. “Well, what is it, Glyde?” Glyde said, “I wish to give notice, if you please.” The manner of address was curt and offensive. “Oh, do you?” Ingram said. “Well, then, you had better do it in the proper way. See Miss Percival about it, will you?” He pressed his knees in as if to continue his way. Glyde, however, stood by the horse's head. “I have seen Miss Percival about it, Mr. Ingram,” he said. “I saw her--a week ago. And now I've got to see you about it.” Ingram looked at him sharply--a sudden stiffening of the spine; spine stiff and eyes sharp, acting together. What he saw made him the more alert. “What on earth do you mean?” he asked. “I'll tell you,” said Glyde. “I'm free of your service from this minute, so I'll tell you. I say that you are a damned scoundrel, and that you know it.” A concentration of many grudges, kept very still, as by white heat, characterised this remarkable speech. Ingram blenched. “By George, my man,” he said, “you'll have to make that good.” Glyde said, “And I will. You have behaved, you are behaving, like a dog in this house; and you're to take a dog's wages.” Ingram jumped in his saddle, rose in his stirrups. “By God,” he said, “by God--” but he said no more. Glyde sprang up at him where he stood above his saddle, unseated--sprang up at him, took him by the shoulders and then dropping, pulled him off his horse. The freed animal, startled, kicked out, shook his head, and cantered gaily homewards. Glyde, having Ingram on the ground, took him by the collar of his jacket and belaboured him with his open hand. He cuffed him like a schoolboy, boxed him about the ears and face, shook him well, and then cast him into the young bracken of his own avenue. “There's for you, seducer,” he said; and that done, he walked steadily up the road towards the lodge gates.