st the office desk, deeply absorbed in the perusal of a
letter. The furrow that was quite distinct between his eyes would seem
to indicate that the contents of the same were far from agreeable.

Twice already had he read the epistle, and was now engaged in going over
it for the third time.

He was faultlessly attired in his hunting things, this being Saturday
and the run of the week. Whatever disagreeableness may have occurred,
Jack Mordaunt was at least a philosopher, and had no intention of
missing a meet so long as Miss Easton was willing to see that he was
well mounted. His single-breasted pink frock-coat was of the latest cut,
and his white moleskin breeches and black pink-top boots were the best
that London makers could turn out. His silk hat and gloves lay upon the
office desk beside him.

"You seem vastly absorbed in that letter, Mr. Mordaunt; this is the
second time I have tried to attract your attention, but with little
success. I trust the contents are more than interesting."

Jack whirled round to find himself face to face with Miss Easton. Try as
he would, the telltale blood slowly mounted to his tanned cheeks,
suffusing his entire face with a ruddy hue. Instinctively he crumpled up
the letter in his hand and thrust it into his coat-pocket, then, with a
poor attempt at a smile, answered her question. "Yes; the letter
contains disagreeable news, at least so far as I am concerned. In fact,
I will have to return to New York Sunday morning."

"But you are coming back?"

He shook his head. "I fear it will be 'good-by.'"

Did he observe the quiver of her lips? Perhaps so. Still, no one would
have known it as he stood there, swinging his hunting-crop like a
pendulum from one finger.

And she--well, the quiver did not last long, and with a little laugh and
shrug she continued: "I suppose most pleasant times come to an end, and
perhaps it is better that they should come too soon than too late. But,
Mr. Mordaunt, we must be going--that is, if we are to be in time for the
meet."

"Where is it to be?"

"At Farmingdale, and that is twelve miles away."

Together they walked down the wide corridor, and many an admiring glance
was bestowed upon them as they passed, and many an insinuating wink and
shrug was given as soon as their backs were turned.

Together they passed through the hotel door on to the terrace and down
the steps--those same steps upon which Jack Mordaunt had sat just three
weeks ago and watc