"I begged _you_ to deliver my message," replied Miss Wycherly, offended and distressed at her lover's action. "I desired _you_, Mr. Tyndal, to deliver my message, not Mr. Spottiswoode." Henry Tyndal misunderstood, and was flattered by Miss Wycherly's reproof. It was clear enough to his comprehension she was angry with Spottiswoode for presuming to take a message which had been delegated to himself as her regular and encouraged attendant. "Oh, well! never mind for once, Miss Wycherly; I thought Spottiswoode was very anxious to go, or he should not have taken my place, I promise you. No, no, poor fellow! he was off before I knew what he was about. Upon my soul, your horses are magnificent." Miss Wycherly did not hear Mr. Tyndal's observation; her attention was given exclusively and painfully to the hall-door, which remained open. Lady Spottiswoode and her daughter appeared. "My dear Miss Wycherly, you are patience itself," exclaimed both ladies. "I never descend from my altitude," replied Miss Wycherly; "but you look forsaken without a beau of some sort; if your son would like to take a seat, Lady Spottiswoode, there is one to spare." "Charles said he meant to call at Hatton," said Miss Spottiswoode, "and I dare say it would really be an accommodation, unless this is the day he promised to ride over to the Farnboroughs. Mr. Tyndal, before you mount your horse, just tell Charles here is room for him, by Miss Wycherly's permission--beg pardon for the trouble." Mr. Henry Tyndal sprang from his horse, and proceeded to obey her request. Miss Wycherly gathered up the reins, but her hands trembled with anxious curiosity to ascertain the effect of the summons. Mr. Henry Tyndal returned alone. "Spottiswoode says he is going to Hatton, but he is engaged to ride there with the Farnborough party. It has been an appointment of some days' standing, he says, therefore he cannot come; here he is to answer for himself." Mr. Charles Spottiswoode appeared equipped for riding, but he excused himself to Miss Wycherly with much politeness--a style of manner so wounding to its object, so unbearably irritating to a self-upbraiding, yet proud, spirit. The colour rose in Miss Wycherly's face. "I am engaged to ride to Hatton with Lord Farnborough and his daughter," proceeded Mr. Spottiswoode: "Lady Anna commanded me to attend her some time ago, and her ladyship never fails her word, therefore I must not allow her to upbraid me with the most offensive of all failings, that of deceiving expectations. Sophy, you are all the colours of the rainbow." "Never mind, Charles," replied Miss Spottiswoode, smiling good-naturedly at the remark; "if I mix pink and green too strongly for your taste, pray remonstrate with Lady Anna Herbert; she wears _three_ colours; perhaps your opinion may have some weight with her. I am, you know, incorrigible."