Mansfield was very happy during this sojourn at Urtas. His work was hard and the hours long, but he found time for a good deal of out-door recreation. The agent had provided horses for the party, of a very different type from the serviceable beasts which they had procured for their journeys, and Mansfield loved all horses; while in the estate and the model farm he found a whole world of delight. The steward, a shrewd and ponderous Dutch Jew, told him when he heard of his path in life that he was a good farmer spoilt, but Mansfield was quite content to regard farming as merely a holiday amusement. It would not bring him nearer to Philippa, which was what he hoped his secretaryship would do. Sometimes Mr Hicks would join him in his rides, and generally on these occasions they went hunting, as the natives called it, dignifying with this lofty name a little quail- and partridge-shooting, for Mansfield drew the line at shooting a fox, much to the disappointment of his attendants. It was on their return from one of these rides that the American said casually-- “Say, Mr Mansfield, not come to any notion yet what your boss has got on his mind, have you?” “On his mind?” repeated Mansfield, in astonishment. “Nothing more than the work and the political situation, I suppose.” “I guess that would be about enough for most men,” said Mr Hicks grimly; “but there’s something else wrong with him, He’s just pining to make tracks from this place right now.” “I haven’t noticed it,” said Mansfield, intending the remark as a snub. “You bet your life you haven’t, Mr Mansfield. You weren’t meant to.” “But what is it?” Mansfield turned to face his tormentor; “and how do you know anything about it?” “Well, sir, if you saw a man fretting like a spirited horse to find himself held fast in one place, and working all he knew to keep himself from thinking, and all the time taking no proper pleasure in his work or anything, what would be your opinion of that man?” “He might be in fear of his life,”--this was intended to be sarcastic; “or he might”--reluctantly--“be in love.” “Sir, you have hit the very central point of the bull’s-eye. That’s what’s wrong with the boss.” “I don’t see that it concerns you if it is.” “There’s no lady in Palestine that he might have been on his way to interview?” continued Mr Hicks imperturbably. “You mean that Queen--Queen Ernestine of Thracia?” asked Mansfield blankly. Could it be possible that the moral problem Cyril had propounded to him before leaving Ludwigsbad had been based upon Cyril’s own experience? “That’s my notion,” was the cheerful reply. “But why wait so long, and go so far round?” “Because he’s half ashamed of coming back to her anyhow, and half of being so long about it,” said Mr Hicks concisely. “I don’t see how you know that.”