“Well, that is a good un!” he said, as soon as he had recovered from the excess of merriment in which Honor’s natural sense of the ludicrous, and the contagion of John’s irresistible laugh, had induced her to join. “That _is_ a good un, by Jove! Why, mother, you must think that Honor is a ‘great jockey,’ as the Paddies say; but I can tell you that she’s far and away too good a rider to damage a horse. I never knew man or woman to have a better nor a lighter hand on a horse’s mouth. You should hear Mr. Vavasour talk of your seat, Honor! And he’s a pretty good judge of such things. Arthur Vavasour is his father all over about horses, and what belongs to ’em. I’m sorry he’s gone; and more sorry, too, that he’s changed his mind about Rough Diamond. He’s a sure card is that animal, and I would a deal rather that Arthur had him than that Colonel Fred Norcott, that he says he’s sold him to.” Mrs. Beacham had fixed her eye steadily on Honor’s countenance from the moment that Arthur Vavasour’s name was mentioned; and when her son had finished speaking, she said in a cold, inquiring manner that could scarcely fail to convey the impression that more was meant than met the ear: “Well, if you haven’t tired out the horse, you’ve made your own face red enough, in all conscience. I say, John, did you ever see such a colour as Honor’s got all of a sudden?” John Beacham looked at his wife admiringly, and the flush, as he did so, deepened on her face. “I don’t see much difference,” he said with a laugh. “Honor’s always like the pretty rose that has grown ever since I can remember next the big lavender-bush in the kitchen-garden--they call it the ‘maiden blush,’ I think; not but what you’re something redder now, Pet? It’s the being looked at, I suppose. Why, who knows? I might begin blushing myself, if anybody took the trouble to notice my looks. But they don’t; the more’s the pity--ain’t it, Honey?” and getting up from the table, for his evening meal was over by this time, he laughingly patted his wife’s glowing cheek, and then kissed it fondly--so fondly, that Mrs. Beacham, looking on with jaundiced eyes, and with the evil demon of maternal jealousy let loose within her, could hardly succeed in keeping that precious thing, her temper. “I wonder what’s come over the old lady,” John said, when he found himself that evening alone with his wife, and could indulge in a few minutes’ confidential discourse before sleep--the deep, healthy sleep of the weary--overtook him. “She isn’t half the woman she was. She’s grown peevish, to my thinking, and nagging--a thing she never was given to before. Perhaps it’s her health,” he added meditatively. “She’s a strong woman for her time of life; but she’s getting on, and I fancy she’s altered--don’t you think so, Pet? Grown wrinkled-like, and haggard, eh?”