at far-away
feeling in his heart, struggling hour by hour with that curious
restlessness which seemed to have taken a permanent place in his
disposition. He was on his way home to Peak Hall. He knew exactly the
welcome which was awaiting him. He knew exactly the news he would
receive. He raised his whip and cracked it viciously in the air.

Stephen was waiting for him, as he had expected, in the dining room. The
elder Strangewey was seated in his accustomed chair, smoking his pipe
and reading the paper. The table was laid for a meal, which Jennings was
preparing to serve.

"Back again, John?" his brother remarked, looking at him fixedly over
his newspaper.

John picked up one or two letters, glanced them over, and flung them
down upon the table. He had examined every envelope for the last few
months with the same expectancy, and thrown each one down with the same
throb of disappointment.

"As you see."

"Had a good time?"

"Not very. We were too strong for them. They came without a bowler at
all."

"Did you get a good knock?"

"A hundred and seven," John replied. "It was just a slog, though.
Nothing to eat, thank you, Jennings. You can clear the table so far as I
am concerned. I had supper with the Greys. Have they finished the
barley-fields, Stephen?"

"All in at eight o'clock."

There was a brief silence. Then Stephen knocked the ashes from his pipe
and rose to his feet.

"John," he asked, "why did you pull up on the road there?"

There was no immediate answer. The slightest of frowns formed itself
upon the younger man's face.

"How did you know that I pulled up?"

"I was sitting with the window open, listening for you. I came outside
to see what had happened, and I saw your lights standing still."

"I had a fancy to stop for a moment," John said; "nothing more."

"You aren't letting your thoughts dwell upon that woman?"

"I have thought about her sometimes," John answered, almost defiantly.
"What's the harm? I'm still here, am I not?"

Stephen crossed the room. From the drawer of the old mahogany sideboard
he produced an illustrated paper. He turned back the frontispiece
fiercely and held it up.

"Do you see that, John?"

"I've seen it already."

Stephen threw the paper upon the table.

"She's going to act in another of those confounded French plays," he
said; "translations with all the wit taken out and all the vulgarity
left in."

"We know nothing of her art," John declared coldly.