"Mr. Tyrrel, madam," said Mowbray, "has acted successively the lion rampant, and the lion passant: he has been quarrelsome, and he has run away--fled from the ire of your doughty knight, Lady Binks." "I am sure I hope not," said Lady Binks; "my Chevalier's unsuccessful campaigns have been unable to overcome his taste for quarrels--a victory would make a fighting-man of him for life." "That inconvenience might bring its own consolations," said Winterblossom, apart to Mowbray; "quarrellers do not usually live long." "No, no," replied Mowbray, "the lady's despair, which broke out just now, even in her own despite, is quite natural--absolutely legitimate. Sir Bingo will give her no chance that way." Mowbray then made his bow to Lady Penelope, and in answer to her request that he would join the ball or the card-table, observed, that he had no time to lose; that the heads of the old domestics at Shaws-Castle would be by this time absolutely turned, by the apprehensions of what Thursday was to bring forth; and that as Clara would certainly give no directions for the proper arrangements, it was necessary that he should take that trouble himself. "If you ride smartly," said Lady Penelope, "you may save even a temporary alarm, by overtaking Clara, dear creature, ere she gets home--She sometimes suffers her pony to go at will along the lane, as slow as Betty Foy's." "Ah, but then," said little Miss Digges, "Miss Mowbray sometimes gallops as if the lark was a snail to her pony--and it quite frights one to see her." The Doctor touched Mrs. Blower, who had approached so as to be on the verge of the genteel circle, though she did not venture within it--they exchanged sagacious looks, and a most pitiful shake of the head. Mowbray's eye happened at that moment to glance on them; and doubtless, notwithstanding their hasting to compose their countenances to a different expression, he comprehended what was passing through their minds;--and perhaps it awoke a corresponding note in his own. He took his hat, and with a cast of thought upon his countenance which it seldom wore, left the apartment. A moment afterwards his horse's feet were heard spurning the pavement, as he started off at a sharp pace. "There is something singular about these Mowbrays to-night," said Lady Penelope.--"Clara, poor dear angel, is always particular; but I should have thought Mowbray had too much worldly wisdom to be fanciful.--What are you consulting your _souvenir_ for with such attention, my dear Lady Binks?" "Only for the age of the moon," said her ladyship, putting the little tortoise-shell-bound calendar into her reticule; and having done so, she proceeded to assist Lady Penelope in the arrangements for the evening. [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. THE MEETING. We meet as shadows in the land of dreams, Which speak not but in signs. _Anonymous._