"Upon my word," said his lordship, "it is too bad! They may say what they please about Reckage, but I call him a spooney. That horse was a noble horse--a most superior horse. He couldn't manage him. I wish he would sell him." "He would never do anything so much to his own advantage," was the dry response. "Poor Reckage is a brilliant fool--he's selfish, and therefore he miscalculates." Sara was now talking mechanically--as she often did when she was with those whom she loved or liked, but from whom she was separated in every thought, interest, and emotion. The lassitude of which she had complained at the beginning of their drive returned upon her. Sighing heavily, she entered the house and mounted the long staircase to the drawing-room, where the tea-table was already spread, the flame quivering under the kettle, the deep pink china laid out on a silver tray. But the homeliness of the scene and its familiarity had no power to soothe that aching, distracted heart. Had she been a man, she thought, she might have sought her refuge in ceaseless work, in great ambitions, in achievements. This eternal tea-pouring and word-mincing, this business of forced laughter and garlanded conversation was more than she could endure. A low cry of impatience, too long and also too loosely imprisoned, escaped from her lips. "What is the matter?" asked Lord Garrow, who was following close upon her heels. "Life," she said, "life! That is all that ever does matter." "Ain't you happy?" "No, but I have it in me to be happy--an appalling capability. Let us say no more about it. I must join myself to eternity, and so find rest." "Well," said her father, who now felt that he had a right to complain, "my poor uncle used to say, if women deserved happiness they would bear it better. Few of them bear it well--and this is a fact I have often brought before me." CHAPTER II