tone of voice.
Nevertheless, his eyes, whenever they fell on that sanguine, steady,
ironic face, shone with a sort of cold inquiry, or were even darkened by
the shade of fear. They met seldom, it is true, for most of his day was
spent in motoring and speaking, and most of Courtier's in writing and
riding, his leg being still too weak for walking. But once or twice in
the smoking room late at night, he had embarked on some bantering
discussion with the champion of lost causes; and very soon an
ill-concealed impatience had crept into his voice. Why a man should
waste his time, flogging dead horses on a journey to the moon, was
incomprehensible! Facts were facts, human nature would never be anything
but human nature! And it was peculiarly galling to see in Courtier's eye
a gleam, to catch in his voice a tone, as if he were thinking: "My young
friend, your soup is cold!"

On a morning after one of these encounters, seeing Barbara sally forth in
riding clothes, he asked if he too might go round the stables, and
started forth beside her, unwontedly silent, with an odd feeling about
his heart, and his throat unaccountably dry.

The stables at Monkland Court were as large as many country houses.
Accommodating thirty horses, they were at present occupied by twenty-one,
including the pony of little Ann. For height, perfection of lighting,
gloss, shine, and purity of atmosphere they were unequalled in the
county. It seemed indeed impossible that any horse could ever so far
forget himself in such a place as to remember that he was a horse. Every
morning a little bin of carrots, apples, and lumps of sugar, was set
close to the main entrance, ready for those who might desire to feed the
dear inhabitants.

Reined up to a brass ring on either side of their stalls with their noses
towards the doors, they were always on view from nine to ten, and would
stand with their necks arched, ears pricked, and coats gleaming,
wondering about things, soothed by the faint hissing of the still busy
grooms, and ready to move their noses up and down the moment they saw
someone enter.

In a large loose-box at the end of the north wing Barbara's favourite
chestnut hunter, all but one saving sixteenth of whom had been entered in
the stud book, having heard her footstep, was standing quite still with
his neck turned. He had been crumping up an apple placed amongst his
feed, and his senses struggled between the lingering flavour of that
delica