“My husband trained Philippa’s horse himself,” said Lady Caerleon, and Maimie undertook to suggest the idea to Félicia. Félicia thought it sounded promising, especially since it involved Lord Caerleon’s escort, and she appeared in an exquisitely cut habit, perfect down to the minutest detail. “She looks very well on horseback, but she sits a little stiffly,” remarked Lady Caerleon to Maimie, as they watched the riders start. “Has she ridden much across country?” “Lady Caerleon!” shrieked Maimie in horror; “don’t tell me your husband’s going to take her ’cross lots. We don’t ride that way in America--not in the East, any way--only on the roads. She’ll be killed.” “You may be quite sure my husband won’t take her anywhere dangerous,” said Lady Caerleon; but Maimie waited in agony until Félicia returned, more dishevelled-looking than she had ever seen her. Lord Caerleon’s good-humoured face was somewhat clouded as he helped her to dismount. “You have a very good seat--for the Park,” was the only comment he allowed himself to make upon the ride, but Félicia was less reticent when she had reached her room. “Maimie Logan,” she said emphatically, “I call you to witness that I won’t ever again go riding with an Englishman anywhere outside of London. When I had declined all the tempting fences and ditches Lord Caerleon showed me, I thought I was through; but suddenly we came out upon a piece of waste land, and he said, ‘This is Phil’s favourite bit of common. Shall we canter?’ and the horse flew off before I could refuse. I was shaken to death, and the wind was ahead of us, so I haven’t a scrap of skin left on my face, and I guess my bang won’t ever curl again.” Maimie received this information with a shriek of unfeigned dismay, and for the next two days Félicia remained invisible to the rest of the household, submitting to many unpleasant and infallible remedies warranted to restore a damaged complexion. Lord and Lady Caerleon were overwhelmed with self-reproach, and Maimie assured Félicia that she would never be asked to ride again. This seemed to her quite satisfactory; but on the evening of the second day, when she rushed upstairs after dinner, she found her friend dissolved in tears. “Why, Fay, your eyes!” she cried, and Félicia applied a handkerchief delicately, then wept again. “Oh, it’s killing me!” was her moan. “Everything here’s just horrid. There isn’t any place to lounge--not even a rocker!” It was quite true. There was an old-fashioned sofa, on which it was possible to lie at full length, but certainly not to lounge, and a low basket-chair, which Philippa, who had upholstered it herself, had thought the most restful thing in the world. The photograph of herself and her husband, which hung over the mantelpiece, in the place where she had always kept her family photographs, seemed to smile maliciously upon the present occupier of the room, as she sat curled-up in a nest of cushions. Maimie came gallantly to the rescue.