r, some day," she said. "I wish
we saw more of her. John and I met her while we were staying with the
Bishop this Spring. The Bishop has the highest opinion of her. He said
that she was a most unusual woman,--in the world, yet not of it. One
feels that. Her eldest girl married young Lord Catesby, you know; a very
brilliant match; she presents her second girl next Spring, when I do
Marjory. You must come over for a ride with Marjory, soon, Augustine."

"I will, very soon," said Augustine.

When their visitor at last went, when the tramp of her heavy boots had
receded down the hall, Lady Channice and her son again sat in silence;
but it was now another silence from that into which Mrs. Grey's shots
had broken. It was like the stillness of the copse or hedgerow when the
sportsmen are gone and a vague stir and rustle in ditch or underbrush
tells of broken wings or limbs, of a wounded thing hiding.

Lady Channice spoke at last. "I wish you had accepted for the dinner,
Augustine. I don't want you to identify yourself with my peculiarities."

"I didn't want to dine with Mrs. Grey, mother."

"You hurt her. She is a kind neighbour. You will see her more or less
for all of your life, probably. You must take your place, here,
Augustine."

"My place is taken. I like it just as it is. I'll see the Greys as I
always have seen them; I'll go over to tea now and then and I'll ride
and hunt with the children."

"But that was when you were a child. You are almost a man now; you are a
man, Augustine; and your place isn't a child's place."

"My place is by you." For the second time that day there was a new note
in Augustine's voice. It was as if, clearly and definitely, for the
first time, he was feeling something and seeing something and as if,
though very resolutely keeping from her what he felt, he was, when
pushed to it, as resolutely determined to let her see what he saw.

"By me, dear," she said faintly. "What do you mean?"

"She ought to have asked you to dinner, too."

"But I would not have accepted; I don't go out. She knows that. She
knows that I am a real recluse."

"She ought to have asked knowing that you would not accept."

"Augustine dear, you are foolish. You know nothing of these little
feminine social compacts."

"Are they only feminine?"

"Only. Mere crystallised conveniences. It would be absurd for Mrs. Grey,
after all these years, to ask me in order to be refused."

There was a moment's silence and th