at this thing was fairly
said. Yet, as he came nearer and sat down on the sofa beside her,
Ormiston, who was a keen observer, both of horses and women, became
aware of a subtle change in Katherine. He was struck--he had never
noticed it before--by her likeness to her--and his--father, whose
stern, high-bred, clean-shaven face and rather inaccessible bearing and
manner impressed his son, even to this day, as somewhat alarming.
People were careful not to trifle with old Mr. Ormiston. His will was
absolute in his own house, with his tenants, and in the great
iron-works--almost a town in itself--which fed his fine fortune. While
from his equals--even from his fellow-members of that not over-reverent
or easily impressible body, the House of Commons--he required and
received a degree of deference such as men yield only to an unusually
powerful character. And there was now just such underlying energy in
Katherine's expression. Her eyes were dark, as a clear midnight sky is
dark, her beautiful lips compressed, but with concentration of purpose,
not with weakness of sorrow. The force of her motherhood had awakened
in Katherine a latent, titanic element. Like "Prometheus Bound,"
chained to the rock, torn, her spirit remained unquelled. For good or
evil--as the event should prove--she defied the gods.

And something of all this--though he would have worded it very
differently in the vernacular of passing fashion--Ormiston perceived.
She was unbroken by that which had occurred, and for this he was
thankful. But she was another woman to her who had greeted him in
pretty apology an hour ago. Yet, even recognising this, her first words
produced in him a shock of surprise.

"Is that horse, the Clown, still at the stables?" she asked.

Ormiston thrust his hands into his pockets; and sitting on the edge of
the sofa with his knees apart, stared down at the carpet. The mention
of the Clown always cut him, and raised in him a remorseful anger. Yes
she was like his father, going straight to the point, he thought. And,
in this case, the point was acutely painful to him personally.
Ormiston's moral courage had been severely taxed, and he had a fair
share of the selfishness common to man. It was all very well, but he
wished to goodness she had chosen some other subject than this. Yet he
must answer.

"Yes," he said; "Willy Taylor has been leading the gallops for the
two-year-olds on him for the last month."--He paused. "What about the
Clow