The stumbling upon the surprising truth, as regarded his connection with John Beacham’s beautiful wife, had set Colonel Norcott’s busy brain a-working in good earnest. Of _feeling_, whether parental or remorseful, he could literally be accused of _none_ on the occasion; but there might--it was an important opening--be something to be done in consequence of this tardy revelation; and Fred was too much in the habit of turning odds and ends to account, not to perceive at once that he must not exactly go to sleep on the knowledge that he was father-in-law to the largest horse-breeder in the United Kingdom. He had arrived at this decision (not a hair’s-breadth beyond; for if Colonel Fred was not given to do “all things decently,” he yet took time to do them prudently and “in order”) when on emerging from the comparatively private lime-walk, he came suddenly face to face upon Arthur Vavasour. “My dear fellow, I was never more surprised!” was his opening greeting. “Why, you told me three days ago that there was not the slightest chance of your being here.” “Quite true,” Arthur said a little coldly; for he did not exactly encourage familiarity from the middle-aged _roué_. “Quite true; but a thousand things happen to make one change one’s mind. The Pembertons, to begin with, gave a holiday to their servants, having decided, after finding what a fuss was made about this stupid business, to come themselves. I couldn’t stay in an empty house, and--” “And there’s a pretty face, eh? that would bring you, I suspect, a good deal farther than from the Pembertons’ here to look at it. I say, old fellow, I hear you’re devilish spoony, and, by Jove! I’m not surprised. That little wife of John Beacham’s is a glorious girl. One wonders where such a creature was picked up. So deuced thoroughbred-looking, and all that kind of thing. I have been trying to find out something about her;” and linking his arm confidentially in that of his young friend, he drew him on in the direction of the course. Glancing furtively at the young untutored countenance by his side, the man experienced in all the turns and twists, the vagaries and the madnesses of the master passion, read in Arthur Vavasour’s face that the time had come for him when “That draught of sorcery which brings Phantoms of fair forbidden things,” had been freely drunk, and when all around seemed dark and lifeless that had not its root and being in the one fair woman that he loved. The time, however, had not yet come when he could desire to confide in mortal man or woman the soft secret of his passion. A very young man, whose love is _very_ fresh and real, cares little to discuss with another the delicate question of “Whether his love loves him or no-- Whether his love loves him.”