ed no one. He did not want
to ride, but to be with Agnes; nor did Agnes want to be parted from him,
nor Stephen to go with him. But the clearer the wishes of her guests
became, the more determined was Mrs. Failing to disregard them. She
smoothed away every difficulty, she converted every objection into a
reason, and she ordered the horses for half-past nine.

"It is a bore," he grumbled as he sat in their little private
sitting-room, breaking his finger-nails upon the coachman's gaiters. "I
can't ride. I shall fall off. We should have been so happy here. It's
just like Aunt Emily. Can't you imagine her saying afterwards, 'Lovers
are absurd. I made a point of keeping them apart,' and then everybody
laughing."

With a pretty foretaste of the future, Agnes knelt before him and did
the gaiters up. "Who is this Mr. Wonham, by the bye?"

"I don't know. Some connection of Mr. Failing's, I think."

"Does he live here?"

"He used to be at school or something. He seems to have grown into a
tiresome person."

"I suppose that Mrs. Failing has adopted him."

"I suppose so. I believe that she has been quite kind. I do hope she'll
be kind to you this morning. I hate leaving you with her."

"Why, you say she likes me."

"Yes, but that wouldn't prevent--you see she doesn't mind what she says
or what she repeats if it amuses her. If she thought it really funny,
for instance, to break off our engagement, she'd try."

"Dear boy, what a frightful remark! But it would be funnier for us to
see her trying. Whatever could she do?"

He kissed the hands that were still busy with the fastenings. "Nothing.
I can't see one thing. We simply lie open to each other, you and I.
There isn't one new corner in either of us that she could reveal.
It's only that I always have in this house the most awful feeling of
insecurity."

"Why?"

"If any one says or does a foolish thing it's always here. All the
family breezes have started here. It's a kind of focus for aimed and
aimless scandal. You know, when my father and mother had their special
quarrel, my aunt was mixed up in it,--I never knew how or how much--but
you may be sure she didn't calm things down, unless she found things
more entertaining calm."

"Rickie! Rickie!" cried the lady from the garden, "Your riding-master's
impatient."

"We really oughtn't to talk of her like this here," whispered Agnes.
"It's a horrible habit."

"The habit of the country, Agnes. Ugh, this gossip!" Sudd