“I’m tired and cold,” she broke in, wayward and sleety as this moorland that had cradled her. “You may spare me--what shall I say?--the flattery that Mr. Underwood gives every woman, when other women are not there to hear.” She did not know what ailed her. Until an hour ago she had been yielding, little by little, to the suit which Will Underwood had pressed on her--in season and out, as his way was. There had been sudden withdrawals, gusts of coquetry, on her part; for the woman’s flight at all times is like a snipe’s--zig-zag, and only to be reckoned with according to the rule of contraries. But now, as she went into the house, not asking but simply permitting him to follow her, there was a real avoidance of him. She could not rid herself of the picture of Rupert, standing desolate up yonder on the empty moors--Rupert, who was heir to traditions of hard riding and hard fighting; Rupert, with the eyes of a dreamer and the behaviour of a hermit. She wondered what he and Maurice were doing on the moor. His last words had not suggested need of her--had hinted plainly that he had a man’s work to do. Her father was in the hall as they came in. A glance at his face told her that Roger Demaine was in no mood for trifles, and she stood apart, willingly enough, while he gravely offered wine to Underwood, and filled his glass for him, and scarcely paused to let him set lips to it before he ran into the middle of his tale. “There’s muddled news from Scotland. I can’t make head or tail of it,” he said, glancing sharply round to see that no servants were in earshot. “We expected him to come south with the New Year, and I’ve had word just now that he’ll be riding through Lancashire before the month is out--that he means to keep Christmas in high state in London.” “I’ll not believe it,” said Will Underwood lazily. “The clans up yonder need more than a week or two to rally to the muster.” “You were always slow to believe,” snapped the Squire. “Have a care, Will, or they’ll say you’re like nine men out of ten--loyal only until the test comes.” The other glanced at Nance, then at his host. “I would not permit the insult from a younger man, sir,” he said. “Oh, fiddle-de-dee!” broke in old Roger. “Fine phrases don’t win battles, and never did. Insult? None intended, Will. But I’m sick with anxiety, and you younger men are the devil and all when you’re asked to ride on some one else’s errand than your own.” Roger Demaine, big of height and girth, his face a fine, fox-hunter’s red, stood palpably for the old race of squires. In his life there were mistakes enough--mistakes of impulse and of an uncurbed temper--but there was no pandering to shame of any sort. “When I’m asked, sir, I shall answer,” said Will Underwood, moving restlessly from foot to foot.