The music jangled, the voice shrieked a false emotion, and Rose’s eyebrows rose with the voice. It was dull, it was dreary, it was a waste of time, yet what else, Rose questioned, could she do with time, of which there was so much? She could not find an answer, and there rose at that moment a chorus of thanks and a gentle clapping of hands. The gaunt girl had finished her song and, poking her chin, returned to her seat. The room buzzed with chatter; it seemed that only Francis and Rose were silent. She turned to look at him. “This is awful,” he said. “No worse than usual.” “When do you think we shall have exhausted Radstowe hospitality? And the worst of it is we have to give dinners ourselves, and the same things happen every time.” “I find it soporific,” said Rose. “I’d rather be soporific in an arm-chair with a pipe.” “This is one of the penalties of marriage,” Rose said lightly. “Look here, I’m giving Christabel another jumping lesson to-morrow. I’ve put some hurdles up. Will you come? She’s getting on very well. I’ll take her hunting before long.” “Does she like it?” “Oh, rather! My word, it would have been a catastrophe if she hadn’t taken to it.” He paused, considering the terrible situation from which he had been saved. “Can’t imagine what I should have done. But she’s never satisfied. She’s beginning to jeer at the old brown horse. I’ve seen a grey mare that might do for her,” and he went on to enumerate the animal’s points. Rose said, “Why don’t you let her have her first season with the old horse? He knows his business. He’ll take care of her.” “She wouldn’t approve of that. I tell you, she’s ambitious. I’ll go and fetch her and you’ll hear for yourself.” She watched him bending over his wife, and saw Christabel rise and slip a hand under his arm. The action was a little like that of a young woman taking a walk with her young man, but it betokened a confidence which roused a slight feeling of envy and sadness in Rose’s heart. “We have been talking about hunting,” she began at once. “Oh, yes,” Christabel said. She looked warily from one to the other. “I’m recommending you to stick to the old brown horse, but Francis says you laugh at him.” “Would you ride him yourself?” Christabel asked. “Not if I could get something better.” “Well, then—” Christabel’s tone was final. But Rose persisted, saying, “But, you see, this isn’t my first season. Stick to the old horse for a little while.” “No,” Christabel said firmly. “If Francis thinks I can ride the mare, I should like to have her.” Rose laughed, but she felt uneasy, and Francis said, “I told you so. She has any amount of pluck. You come and watch.” “No, I can’t come to-morrow. I think I’ll see her first in all her glory on the grey mare.” “All the same,” Christabel added, “if she’s very expensive, I don’t want her. Francis is extravagant over horses, and we have to be careful.” “We’ll economize somewhere else,” he said. “The mare is yours.”