es,
costers' spring carts and barrows. Every coach carried its horn, and
every horn was blown at the approach to every village. The sun was hot,
and the roads were rising to the horses' fetlocks in dust. Drake was
pointing out some of their travelling companions. That large coach going
by at a furious gallop was the coach of the Army and Navy Club; that
barouche with its pair of grays and its postilion belonged to a
well-known wine merchant; that carriage with its couple of leaders worth
hundreds apiece was the property of a prosperous publican; that was the
coach which usually ran between Northumberland Avenue and Virginia Water,
and its seats were let out at so much apiece, usually to clerks who
practised innocent frauds to escape from the city; those soldiers on the
omnibus were from Wellington Barracks on "Derby leave"; and those jolly
tars with their sweethearts, packed like herrings in a car, were the only
true sportsmen on the road and probably hadn't the price of a glass of
rum on any race of the day. Going by road to the Derby was almost a thing
of the past; smart people didn't often do it, but it was the best fun
anyway, and many an old sport tooled his team on the road still.

Glory grew brighter at every mile they covered. Everything pleased or
amused or astonished her. With the charm born of a vivid interest in life
she radiated happiness over all the company. Some glimpses of the country
girl came back, her soul thrilled to the beauty of the world around, and
she cried out like a child at sight of the chestnut and red hawthorn, and
at the scent of spring with which the air was laden. From time to time
she was recognised on the road, people raised their hats to her, and
Drake made no disguise of his beaming pride. He leaned back to Rosa, who
was sitting on the seat behind, and whispered, "Like herself to-day,
isn't she?"

"Why shouldn't she be? With all the world at her feet and her future on
the knees of the gods!" said Rosa.

But a shade of sadness came over Glory's face, as if the gay world and
its amusements had not altogether filled a void that was left somewhere
in her heart. They were drawing up to water the horses at the old "Cock"
at Sutton, and a brown-faced woman with big silver earrings and a monster
hat and feather came up to the coach to tell the "quality" their
fortunes.

"Oh, let us, Glo," cried Betty. "I'd love it of all things, doncher
know."

The gipsy had held out her hand to Glory