This was the scene upon which Raymond Rushton came in, very slowly, crushing his hat in his hands. His mother had prevented him from signifying the hour of his visit, with a natural fear of the precautions which Mrs. Stone would certainly have taken to occupy the ground beforehand; but this prudence, as it happened, did him no good. Raymond, to tell the truth, was as much relieved as he was annoyed by St. Clair’s presence. He had felt himself grow red and grow pale, hot and cold, all the way, as he came along the street, wondering how he was to manage to make himself agreeable as his mother had ordered him. The very fact that he was commanded to make himself agreeable hindered any natural effort he might have been capable of. He did not know how to talk to Lucy. Some girls saved you the trouble of talking, but she was not one of those girls, and he did not know how he was to manage to get upon such easy terms with her as would make flirtation possible--even if he had known how to flirt, which he did not--at least with Lucy. So, though he was so far sensible of the importance of the pursuit as to be slightly angry and alarmed by St. Clair’s presence, he was still more relieved, on the whole, to feel that he was thus protected, and that there would not be so much required of him. He came in looking very much embarrassed, crushing his hat between his hands. “How d’ye do, Miss Trevor?” he said. “My mother thought I ought to come and see about our ride. We have fixed Thursday for the picnic, but don’t you think we might go out to-morrow to see how the horses go together? Mine,” said Raymond, with a blush, “is rather an old screw.” “I should like to go--whenever you like. I am very fond of it,” said Lucy. “Jock and I thought of going a little way this evening, but only a little way.” This put Raymond more and more out. “I am afraid I can’t get my horse to-day. It is too late now to arrange it.” “Do you get your horses from the Black Bull?” said St. Clair. “It must be difficult to make sure of anything there. I go to the Cross Keys, where you are much better served. The Black Bull,” he added, in an explanatory tone, “is the place where you get your flies, Miss Trevor. When the fine weather comes, and a great many people are driving about, all their horses are put into requisition.” “Oh, not quite so bad as that,” cried Raymond, reddening; “you don’t suppose I ride a fly-horse.” “I know I have done it,” St. Clair said; “when one has not a horse of one’s own, one has to be content with what one can get; but to feel that you are upon a noble steed which made his last appearance, perhaps, between the shafts of a hearse--” “Oh, hold hard!” Raymond cried; he was sadly humiliated by the suggestion, and he now began to feel that the presence of this intruder made his visit of very little use, indeed; “you must not take all that for gospel, Miss Trevor. A joke is a joke, but a man may go too far in joking.”