He lays down the _Times_. We all joyfully
half bow our heads, in expectation of the wonted "For what we have
received," etc., but speedily and disappointedly raise them again.

"Jane, can you spare me another cup?" and reburies himself in a long
leader. Behind the shelter of the great sheet, I make a hideous
contortion across the table at Sir Roger, who has fallen with great
docility into our ways, and is looking back at me now with that gentle,
steadfast serenity which is the leading characteristic of his face, but
which this morning is, I cannot help thinking, a good deal disturbed,
hard as he is trying to hide it. There are, thank Heaven, no more false
starts. Next time that he lays down the paper, we are all afraid to bend
our heads, for fear that the movement shall break the charm, and induce
him to send for a fourth cup--he has already had _three_--but no!
release has come at last.

"For what we have received the Lord make us truly thankful!"

Almost before we have reached "thankful," there is a noise of several
chairs pushed back. Before you could say "knife!" we are all out of the
room. All but Sir Roger! In deference, I suppose, to the feelings of the
friend of his infancy, and not to appear _too_ anxious to leave him--Sir
Roger ought to have married Barbara, they two are always thinking of
other people's feelings--he delays a little, and indeed they emerge
together and find me sitting on one of the uncomfortable, stiff
hall-chairs, on which nobody ever sits. To my dismay, I hear father say
something about the chestnut colt's legs, and I know that another delay
is in store for me. Sir Roger comes over to me, and takes his wide-awake
from the stand beside me.

"We are going to the stables," he says, patting my shoulder.

I make a second hideous face. Often have I been complimented by the
boys, on the flexibility of my features.

"I shall be back in ten minutes," he says, in a low voice; "will you
wait for me in the morning-room?"

"I suppose I must," say I, reluctantly, with a disgusted and
disappointed drawing down of the corners of my mouth.

Ten minutes pass; twenty, five-and-twenty! Still he has not come back. I
walk up and down the room; I look out the window at the gardeners
rolling the grass; I rend a large and comely rose into tatters, while
all manner of unpleasant possibilities stalk along in order before my
mind's eye. Perhaps Tempest is burnt down. Perhaps some bank, in which
he has put all