d that in the field in her woman's hat and
hunting-coat she is handsomer than ever. Even my Lord Dunstanwolde has
rode to the meet to behold her, and admires her as far as a sober
elderly gentleman can."

That my Lord Dunstanwolde admired her, Osmonde knew. His rare letters
told a grave and dignified gentleman's version of the story and spoke
of it with kindly courtesy and pleasure in it. It had proved that the
change which had come over her had been the result of no caprice or
mischievous spirit but of a reasonable intention, to which she had been
faithful with such consistency of behaviour as filled the gossips and
onlookers with amazement.

"'Tis my belief," said the kindly nobleman, "that being in truth a
noble creature, though bred so wildly, the time came when she realised
herself a woman, and both wit and heart told her that 'twas more
honourable to live a woman's life and not a madcap boy's. And her
intellect being of such vigour and fineness, she can execute what her
thought conceives."

Among the gentlemen who were her courtiers there was much talk of the
fashionable rake Sir John Oxon, who, having appeared at her birthnight
supper, had become madly enamoured of her, and had stayed in the
country at Eldershawe Park and laid siege to her with all his forces
and with much fervour of feeling besides. 'Twas a thing well known that
this successful rake had never lost his heart to a woman in his life
before, and that his victims had all been snared by a part played to
villanous perfection; but 'twas plain enough that at last he had met a
woman who had set that which he called his soul on fire. He could not
tear himself away from the country, though the gayeties of the town
were at their highest. When in her presence his burning blue eyes
followed her every movement, and when she treated him disdainfully he
turned pale.

"But she leaves him no room for boasting," related young Tantillion.
"He may worship as any man may, but she shows no mercy to any, and him
she treats with open scorn when he languishes. He grows thin and pale
and is half-crazed with his passion for her."

There is no man who has given himself up to a growing passion and has
not yet revealed it, who does not pass through many an hour of unrest.
How could it be otherwise? In his absence from the object of his
feeling every man who lives is his possible rival, every woman his
possible enemy, every event a possible obstacle in the way to that he