“Mr. Underwood has gone to the wars,” broke in Nance, with an odd sense of misery and an obstinate contempt, for all that, of this woman’s prattling. “He’ll come back in his own time, Lady Royd, after the King is on his throne again.” “But _has_ he gone to the wars? I missed him among our friends to-day.” “Because he has ridden on a private errand of the Prince’s.” Nance was reckless in her protection of Will’s honour. “He was the likeliest rider of them all to be chosen for such service.” “Oh, there! And I hoped he would be wise, and stay at home, and ride over now and then to cheer us with his pleasant face.” Her smile was frail and listless, with a certain youthful archness in it that drew men to her side; but its appeal was lost on Nance. “Of course, I am loyal to Sir Jasper--and I shall cry each night till he returns--but Will’s homage is charming, Nance. It is so delicate, child--a word here, and a glance there--that one forgets one is middle-aged. He spent some years in Paris, they say--to escape from his father’s money-making and from the bleak chapel on the hill--and I can well believe it. The French have that gift of suggesting a grand passion, when neither actor in the comedy believes a word of it.” Nance moved away, and looked out at the sunlight and the sleety hills. So strong, so impulsive, was her resistance to Sir Jasper’s wife that even the “bleak chapel on the hill”--she knew it well, a four-square, dowdy little building not far from her own home--took on an unsuspected strength and dignity. It was reared out of moor-stone, at least--reared by stubborn, if misguided, folk who were bred on the same uplands as herself. Will Underwood had learned follies in Paris, undoubtedly; but, if her liking for him, her care for his honour, had any meaning, it rested on the faith that he had outgrown these early weaknesses, that he was English to the core. He could ride straight--there was something pathetic in her clinging to this one, outstanding virtue--he was known among men to be fearless, strong in all field-sports; he had endurance and a liking for the open air. And Lady Royd, in her vague, heedless way, had painted him as a parlour lap-dog, who could while a pleasant hour away for women who lived in over-heated rooms. Nance was obstinate in her loyalty to friends; yet she remembered now stray hints, odds and ends of scandal passed between the women after dinner, while they waited for the men to join them; and all had been agreed that Will Underwood had the gift of making the last woman who engaged his ardour believe she was the first. Lady Royd warmed her hands at the fire again, and laughed gently. “Why, child, you’re half in love with him, like the rest of us. I know it by your silence.” And Nance, whose good-humour was a byword among her intimates, found her temper snap, like any common, ill-forged sword might do. “By your leave,” she said, “I never did anything by halves. My friends are my friends. I’m loyal, Lady Royd.”