Harrington scarcely followed the lady’s meaning. There was no time for explanations, as the butler, who had been waiting for her Ladyship’s appearance, now announced dinner, and Harrington had the bliss of going to the dining-room with Juliet Baldwin on his arm. He felt as if he were in the Moslem’s enchanted fields as he sat by her side at the brilliant table, with its almost overpowering perfume of hot-house flowers, which were grouped in great masses of bloom among the old silver and the many-coloured Venetian glass. Yes, it was a Mohammedan paradise, and this was the houri, this lovely creature with the milky shoulders rising out of soft folds of scarlet crape. “How long are you going to stay here, Juliet?” he asked, as the houri unfolded her napkin. She gave a little laugh before she answered the question. “Compare this room and table with our dining-room at the Mount—you can compare the dinner with my mother’s dinners after you have eaten it—and ask yourself if any reasonable creature would be in a hurry to leave this Canaan for that wilderness. I’m afraid I shall stop as long as ever dear old Lady B. asks me; and she is always pressing me to extend my visit.” “I don’t think dinner can be much of attraction in your mind, Juliet,” said Harrington. “Of course not—girls don’t care what they eat,” replied Juliet, sipping her clear soup, and most fully appreciating the flavour. “But there are so many advantages at Medlow. There is the hunting, for instance, which is much better than any I can get at home, where I have positively no horse that I can call my own. Here I can always rely upon a good mount.” “Has Lady Burdenshaw a large stable?” “Oh, she keeps a good many horses; but most of hers are only fit for leather. There are men who come here with strings of hunters, and have always a young one that they like me to handle for them.” “Juliet, you will get your neck broken,” cried Harrington, pale with horror, and staring vacantly at the fish that was being offered to him. “There is no fear of that while I ride young horses, the danger is an old one. My father taught me to ride, and as he was one of the best cross-country riders in Dorset I am not likely to make a mistake. You had better try that _sole Normande_; it is one of the Medlow specialities.” “Juliet, I hate the idea of your staying in this house—or in any house where there is a crowd of fast men. I hate the idea of your riding men’s horses—of your being under an obligation to a stranger——” “Don’t I tell you that the obligation is all the other way. A young hunter is a more saleable article when he has carried a lady. ‘Will suit a bold horsewoman in a stiff country.’ That sort of thing is worth a great deal in a catalogue, and the men whose horses I ride are not strangers.” “At the most they are casual acquaintances.” “Call them that if you like. Why should not one profit by one’s acquaintances?”