rt again.
The eyeglass expressed its horror of tea at seven o'clock. "God
forbid," said James, dear, ridiculous creature.

Mr. Urquhart talked at once of Lancelot. "Well, he's off with all the
rest of them. They love it, you know. It's movement--it's towards the
unknown, the not impossible--the 'anything might turn up at any
minute.' Now, we don't feel so sure about the minutes, do we?"

Oh, don't we though? She laughed and tilted her chin. "We feel,
anyhow, for _their_ minutes, bless them," she said, and Urquhart
looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"'He for God only, she for God in him,'" he said. He added, "I like
that boy of yours. I think he understands me"--and pleased her.

There were a few minutes' desultory talk, in the course of which Lucy
gravitated towards James, and finally put her hand in his arm. You
should have seen the effect of this simple caress upon the eyeglass.
Like a wounded snake it lifted its head to ask, "Who has struck me?"
It wavered and wagged. But Lucy was glass-proof now.

Urquhart said that he was going away shortly, at least he supposed he
should. A man he knew wanted to try a new motor. They were to rush
down to Biarritz, and possibly over the frontier to Pampluna. But
nothing was arranged. Here he looked scrutinising and half quizzical
at her. "Are you adventurously inclined? Will you try my monster? It's
a dragon."

She was very adventurously inclined--as James might know! but not with
a Mr. Urquhart necessarily: therefore she hesitated. "Oh, I don't
really know--" Urquhart laughed. "Be bold--be bold--be not too bold.
Well, there it is. I start for the Newmarket road at eleven
to-morrow--but I'll fetch you for twopence. Ask _him_." He jerked his
head forward towards James, on whose arm her hand rested. Lucy looked
up at her romantic lord--a look which might have made a man proud. But
James may have been proud enough already. At any rate, he didn't see
her look, but was genial to Urquhart--over whom he considered that he
had triumphed in the library.

"Sooner her than me," he said. "I know that she likes it and so advise
her to go. But I should die a thousand deaths."

"She won't," said Urquhart; and then to Lucy, "Well, ma'am?"

Her eyes assented before she did. "Very well, I'll come. I dare say it
will be delightful."

"Oh, it will," he said.

Still he rambled on--plain, grumbling, easy, familiar talk, while Lucy
fumed and fidgeted to be alone with her joy and pride. "You