she hear? Why, the slow footsteps of a horse, advancing with even pace along the lane below! Instinctively she rose from her seat, and peering over the hedge, she recognised in the equestrian, who politely raised his hat from his head (for a simultaneous movement had caused him to look towards the terrace), the figure of Arthur Vavasour. It was too late to retreat, her blushing face was just above him, and she could only hope that he would not think her very _missyish_ and forward. _That_ road--the one that he had chosen--was not the usual one from Gillingham to the Paddocks, and this, Honor, feeling and seeming a good deal confused and awkward, endeavoured to make him understand. She had forgotten, or rather she had never heard, the proverb, that _qui s’excuse, s’accuse_; but Arthur both remembered and applied it. It is always a temptation to jump at conclusions that are flattering to our vanity, and the “jump” on this occasion was far too alluring to be withstood. Arthur had in good truth very little grounds for supposing that Honor had betaken herself to that quiet spot for the purpose of awaiting his arrival. He was profoundly ignorant, beyond the simple fact that she was beautiful, of all that appertained to or regarded John Beacham’s wife. Unfortunately too he had been a good deal thrown among a class of women, who would have taken no great shame to themselves had they been caught in the deed for which he gave that pretty, unsuspecting Honor credit. Arthur had met with a good deal of petting and spoiling from the sex in general. He was handsome, and he knew it. Honor was looking tantalisingly lovely and attractive as she stammered forth her silly, smiling excuses; so--it was foolish certainly, but he was not yet “of age,” remember, and it would have been so “muffish” to ride on as if she were not there--so Arthur Vavasour, following the impulse of the moment, and meaning, as he would have said, no more than to be “civil,” contrived (without awkwardness, which would have been fatal in such a case) to spring with his feet upon the saddle, and to bring his face on a level with Honor’s. She could not help laughing; it was “such a foolish thing to do;” and then there came, after he had shaken hands with her over the hedge, the fear that the horse would move on, and that there would be an “accident.” “He might move on--O, please don’t wait!” she said, feeling a little smitten with what struck her as an act of chivalry on the part of that good-looking young aristocrat.