"Poor Hugh!" said Mrs. Roughsedge to her husband on their return, as she stood beside him, in his study. Her voice was low, for Hugh had only just gone up-stairs, and the little house was thinly built. The doctor rubbed his nose thoughtfully, and then looked round him for a cigarette. "Yes," he said, slowly; "but he enjoyed his walk home." "Henry!" Hugh had walked back to the village with Mrs. Colwood, who had an errand there, and it was true that he had talked much to her out of earshot of his parents, and had taken a warm farewell of her at the end. "Why am I to be 'Henry'-ed?"--inquired the doctor, beginning on his cigarette. "Because you must know," said his wife, in an energetic whisper, "that Hugh had almost certainly proposed to Miss Mallory before we arrived, and she had refused him!" The doctor meditated. "I still say that Hugh enjoyed his walk," he repeated; "I trust he will have others of the same kind--with the same person." "Henry, you are really incorrigible!" cried his wife. "How can you make jokes--on such a thing--with that girl's face before you!" "Not at all," said the doctor, protesting. "I am not making jokes, Patricia. But what you women never will understand is, that it was not a woman but a man that wrote-- "'If she be not fair for me-- What care I--'" "Henry!" and his wife, beside herself, tried to stop his mouth with her hand. "All right, I won't finish," said the doctor, placidly, disengaging himself. "But let me assure you, Patricia, whether you like it or not, that that is a male sentiment. I quite agree that no nice woman could have written it. But, then, Hugh is not a nice woman--nor am I." "I thought you were so fond of her!" said his wife, reproachfully. "Miss Mallory? I adore her. But, to tell the truth, Patricia, I want a daughter-in-law--and--and grand-children," added the doctor, deliberately, stretching out his long limbs to the fire. "I admit that my remarks may be quite irrelevant and ridiculous--but I repeat that--in spite of everything--Hugh enjoyed his walk." * * * * * One October evening, a week later, Lady Lucy sat waiting for Sir James Chide at Tallyn Hall. Sir James had invited himself to dine and sleep, and Lady Lucy was expecting him in the up-stairs sitting-room, a medley of French clocks and china figures, where she generally sat now, in order to be within quick and easy reach of Oliver. She was reading, or pretending to read, by the fire, listening all the time for the sound of the carriage outside. Meanwhile, the silence of the immense house oppressed her. It was broken only by the chiming of a carillon clock in the hall below. The little tune it played, fatuously gay, teased her more insistently each time she heard it. It must really be removed. She wondered Oliver had not already complained of it.