Isabel came back into the room, and in a moment an animated conversation was going forward. Gundred took her part bravely, speaking wherever speech was possible, always falling short or wide of the point, always on the edge of giving up the attempt, and always being picked up by her husband, and pushed back again into the dialogue. Then the carriage was announced, and she set off with Isabel to visit the Restormels. Kingston sat in the garden, pondering the strange situation, hoping that he was behaving fairly to all concerned, and believing that he was. What could come of it all he had no idea. Poor Gundred, he admired her, respected her, marvelled at her--did everything, in fact, but love her. And that was now beyond his power. Love he could show, love no one can force himself to feel. She no longer stirred any pulses of emotion in him. She was a mere acquaintance--a pretty, charming, well-mannered acquaintance, but nothing more. What could he do, except what he was doing? To send Isabel away would be to find himself soon ceasing even to tolerate his wife. Without Isabel his life would become vacant and boring beyond conception. And it was not possible but that his boredom would react unfavourably on his attitude towards Gundred. It was fairer to all that Isabel should remain with them, easing off the tension of the difficult situation. And in time everything would settle down somehow, and the problem of existence would solve itself. He would not look ahead. Ten days had passed in a dream of holy happiness. Why not ten months, ten years, ten lustres? Meanwhile the return of the two women was strangely delayed. Tea-time came and went without a sign of them. And then the agitating news arrived that the new horse had emphasized his novelty by bolting on the homeward way, and upsetting the carriage at the foot of the hill leading up to the Castle. Gundred was unhurt, and soon appeared, pale and shaken, but intrepid. As for Isabel, her leg had been badly broken.