"And to Plymouth at least a dozen times," protested Dora. "All I can say is that you are my idea of perpetual motion." "I know you are hardly ever at home, Mr. Grahame," said Hilda, supporting her friend. They strolled towards the house as they talked, and half-way along the avenue they met the master of Penmorval, correctly attired in sober evening-dress, with a light overcoat worn loosely above his faultless black. "How do you do, Heathcote? Do you know, Dora, that it is ten minutes to eight? You'll stop and dine with us, of course," added Wyllard cordially. "You refused last night; but now Hilda is here, and you have no excuse for going home." "I only came to afternoon tea," said Hilda. "And you and my wife have been gossiping from five o'clock until now. Deepest mystery of social life, what two women can find to talk about for three mortal hours in the depths of a rural seclusion like this!" "A mystery to a man, who cannot imagine that women either think or read," retorted Dora, taking her husband's arm. "You men have a fixed idea that your wives and sisters have only two subjects of conversation, gowns and servants. Of course, you will stay and dine, Mr. Heathcote. I am not going to dress for dinner, so please don't look at your frock-coat as if that were an insuperable obstacle. You and Hilda are going to stop, whether you like it or not." "You know we always like to be here," said Hilda, in her low sweet voice. She stole a shy little look at Bothwell, as if wondering what he thought of the matter; but Bothwell's countenance was inscrutable. Hilda was pained but not surprised by his manner. He had changed to her so strangely within the last few months--he who half a year ago had been so kind, so attentive. She was not angry--she was not vain enough to wonder that a man should begin by caring for her a little, and then leave off caring all at once, and relapse into absolute indifference. She supposed that such fickleness was a common attribute of the superior sex.