ake me? The yacht is all ready for sea."

"Yes," Katherine said.

"I asked this morning who was here with you, and Powell told me. I
can't see them, mother, simply I can't! I haven't the nerve. I haven't
the face. Can you send them away?"

"Yes," Katherine said.

Richard's eyes had grown dangerously bright. A spot of colour burned on
either cheek. Katherine leaned over him.

"My dearest," she declared, "you have talked enough."

"Yes, they're beginning to play again, I can hear the rattle of the
dice.--Mother take me away, take me out to sea, away from this dreadful
place.--Ah! you poor darling, how horribly selfish I am!--But let me
get out to sea, and then later, take me home--to Brockhurst. The house
is big. Nobody need see me."

"No, no," Katherine said, laying him back with tender force upon the
pillows.--"No one has seen you, no one shall see you. We will be alone,
you and I, just as long as you wish. With me, my beloved, you are very
safe."

CHAPTER IV

DEALING WITH MATTERS OF HEARSAY AND MATTERS OF SPORT

One raw, foggy evening, early in the following December, the house at
Newlands presented an unusually animated scene. On the gravel of the
carriage-sweep, without, grooms walked breathed and sweating
horses--the steam from whose bodies and nostrils showed white in the
chill dusk--slowly up and down. In the hall, within, a number of
gentlemen, more or less mud-bespattered, regaled themselves with
cheerful conversation, with strong waters of unexceptionable quality,
and with their host, Mr. Cathcart's very excellent cigars. They moved
stiffly and stood in attitudes more professional than elegant. The
long, clear-coloured drawing-room beyond offered a perspective of much
amiable comfort. The glazed surfaces of its flowery-patterned chintzes
gave back the brightness of candles and shaded lamps, while drawn
curtains shut out the somewhat mournful prospect of sodden garden, bare
trees, and gray, enshrouding mist. At the tea-table, large, mild,
reposeful, clothed in wealth of black silk and black lace, was Mrs.
Cathcart. Lord Fallowfeild, his handsome, infantile countenance beaming
with good-nature and good-health above his blue-and-white, bird's-eye
stock and scarlet hunting-coat, sat by her discoursing with great
affability and at great length. Mary Ormiston stood near them, an
expression of kindly diversion upon her face. Her figure had grown
somewhat matronly in these days, and there were line