“Of course that’s right,” pronounced Norah in an authoritative tone. “If that’s the English law,” observed the Marchesa, rising from the table, “I greatly regret that I ever settled in England.” “What are you going to do this afternoon, Helena? Going to play tennis--or croquet?” “I’m going for a walk, thank you, Violet.” She paused for a moment and then added, “By myself.” “Oh, mayn’t I have the privilege----?” began the Colonel. “Not to-day, thank you, Colonel Wenman. I--I have a great deal to think about. We shall meet again at tea--unless you’re all going to tea at Scarsmoor Castle!” With this Parthian shot she left them. She had indeed much to think of--and her reflections were not cast in a cheerful mould. She had underrated her enemy. It had seemed sufficient to lock the gate and to forbid Lynborough’s entry. These easy measures had appeared to leave him no resource save blank violence: in that confidence she had sat still and done nothing. He had been at work--not by blank violence, but by cunning devices and subtle machinations. He had made a base use of his personal fascinations, of his athletic gifts, even of his lordly domain, his garden of roses, and his carriage. She perceived his strategy; she saw now how he had driven in his wedges. Her ladies had already gone over to his side; even her men were shaken. Stillford had always been lukewarm; Irons was fluttering round Lynborough’s flame; Wenman might still be hers--but an isolation mitigated only by Colonel Wenman seemed an isolation not mitigated in the least. When she had looked forward to a fight, it had not been to such a fight as this. An enthusiastic, hilarious, united Nab Grange was to have hurled laughing defiance at Scarsmoor Castle. Now more than half Nab Grange laughed--but its laughter was not at the Castle; its laughter, its pitying amusement, was directed at her; Lynborough’s triumphant campaign drew all admiration. He had told Stillford that he would harry her; he was harrying her to his heart’s content--and to a very soreness in hers. For the path--hateful Beach Path which her feet at this moment trod--became now no more than an occasion for battle, a symbol of strife. The greater issue stood out. It was that this man had peremptorily challenged her to a fight--and was beating her! And he won his victory, not by male violence in spite of male stupidity, but by just the arts and the cunning which should have been her own weapons. To her he left the blunt, the inept, the stupid and violent methods. He chose the more refined, and wielded them like a master. It was a position to which the Marchesa’s experience had not accustomed her--one to which her spirit was by no means attuned.