Three years had slipped by since the sensational and still-talked-of wedding at Thornby, and although a good deal of water had flowed under the bridge, it had brought no pleasant flotsam to the feet of Letty Blagdon. Her husband deserted her for months at a time; he had taken to racing, owned a stable and rented rooms at Newmarket, as well as a hunting-box in the shires, declaring that Sharsley, as a hunting centre, was obsolete. He frequently went abroad _en garçon_, assuring inquisitive friends, that “his wife loathed the Continent, and that nothing would induce her to leave the child.” During the first months of Letty’s married life the Court had opened its long-closed doors, and maintained something of its ancient state; there had been dinners, shoots, and visitors; more than once Aunt Dorothy had adventured over from Thornby, put up her horses, and accorded to her miserable niece, a critical and inquisitive ‘day’; but a twenty-mile drive is a serious undertaking, and Mrs. Fenchurch contented herself with boasting to her friends of Mrs. Blagdon’s enviable happiness, and the beauties, and luxuries, of her home. Not so Uncle Tom! He missed--sorely missed--the light of his eyes, the joy of his heart, and felt guiltily anxious with regard to her future. Mounted on Kitty, a notable Irish mare, he rode over to Sharsley every few weeks; when the master of the house happened to be at home these excursions had the effect of emphasising his apprehensions. The tone in which Blagdon addressed his wife, his rudeness, and the ferocity of his sarcasms made the thin blood of the old soldier mount to his face; and yet the host mended his manners when Letty’s uncle was present. Fenchurch was such a starched-up old cock;--and that a man of his age would ride forty miles just to see a relative, awakened Blagdon’s amusement and surprise. “The old boy looks bad--he’s breaking!” he abruptly remarked to his wife one afternoon after her uncle had ridden away. Letty had observed a change; the hale little officer now looked worn and grey; he had grown thin, and lost his cheery manner; when Hugo noticed anything of that sort, it must be woefully apparent! However, she made no answer, and winked back her tears, and her husband resumed: “I’m surprised Mrs. Fen has not done for him long ago, with her jaw and her managing, and her damned hatchet face. Thank God she doesn’t show it here!” and with this congratulation on his lips, Blagdon departed. By and by the forty-mile ride proved too much for Kitty; so said her master; he sent her a night before to a half-way village inn (where, according to the landlady, Queen Elizabeth had slept the night before her head was cut off!), drove there himself next day, and rode her on to Sharsley.