The stranger laughs, shoulders her gun, and turns away. "Where would you have been now," she cries in parting, "if I had shot you down by mistake like a jungle fowl?" There is a taunting sneer in the words. A hateful thought steals into Eleanor's mind. This woman, who swears and treats her with such abominable coolness, knows something of her past or present, possibly from Elizabeth, with whom she may be acquainted. This last remark is an insinuation of her unfitness to die, and that her soul is ripe for perdition. The implied slur gradually increases and exaggerates itself in Eleanor's brain, sensitive to a degree. She sees in it a deliberate insult, and following Paulina, she demands: "Before you go, please apologise for your carelessness. I am not accustomed to be made a mark of, either for bullets or jests." Paulina stops, and looks her up and down in a manner that makes Eleanor feel like a pigmy facing a giant. She takes out a cigarette, places it between her teeth, and hands her case to Eleanor. "Have one?" she asks, with insouciance. Eleanor is staggered. She does not know whether to take this as a fresh slight or a very lame apology. Faint pulses of quivering sunbeams glance through the trees, playing round the dead body of Paulina's horse. The old oaks rear their heads to a sky of purest turquoise, but Eleanor has no heart to notice the beautiful aerial effects. She is wondering if the proffered cigarette is meant as an olive branch or otherwise. She gazes in mute disgust. "Have you never seen a weed before?" asks Paulina vivaciously. "You are the type of woman, I suppose, who sits at home and arranges flowers, very artistically, no doubt. You would pose in limp gowns of gauzy drapery, like a pictured saint, and expect your husband or your lovers to grovel and worship. But you are dangerously near to the borderland separating the sublime from the ridiculous. You expect me to apologise for a shot at random, which cost a valuable horse its life. Some savage black who worships your fair form at a distance, most likely paid it back with interest." "You are a very vulgar woman," exclaimed Eleanor. "I hope I shall never see you again." "Don't use that word 'vulgar,'" she replies, "it's so low class." "You don't mind what you say to me because I am alone and unprotected," cries Eleanor with almost childish petulance, the tears glistening in her angry eyes. "If Carol was here, he would defend me." "Carol," she laughs, "who is the staunch and gallant Carol?" But Eleanor will not answer; she feels desperately affronted, and turns away. The women walk in opposite directions; the day is dying. "Well! you are back safely; any adventures?" asks Quinton, as she enters the house pale and weary. Eleanor sinks into a chair, slowly unwinds her veil, and flings her hat impatiently upon the sofa. She is so seriously put out, that for the moment she dares not trust herself to speak. "Anything the matter, eh?"