There is to be a meet at Stokeham Park the next morning, and
Hyacinthe, for the first time in her life, witnesses the pretty sight.
Two or three only of the ladies are going to ride to cover, among them
Lady Florence Ffolliott, who looks superbly on her horse and in her
habit, and feels superbly too--in a transient physical fashion--as she
glances down at Hyacinthe, who in her clinging creamy gown, with a
furred cloak thrown about her, stands in the porch to see them off.
She knows nothing of horses or riding, and is therefore debarred from
the exhilarating pleasure, and has also declined Lady Dering's offer
to drive with her to the first cover that is to be drawn. But the
pretty and, to her, novel picture of the various vehicles with their
freight of merry matrons, girls and children, the scarlet coats of the
sportsmen and the servants, the hounds drawn up a good piece off, the
four ladies who are going to ride, and stately, cheery Lady Dering
exchanging cordial and courteous greetings with her friends and
neighbors, while good-hearted Sir Harry gives some last instructions
to his whip, is sufficiently charming.

"You have eaten no breakfast, Mr. Chandoce," cries the hostess, "and
you are quite as white as Lady Florence's glove there. I insist upon
your taking a glass of something before you are off.--Patrick!" But
before Patrick has even started on my lady's errand Hyacinthe has
fetched from the hall a glass of claret-cup, and holds it up to him
where he sits on his lithe and mettlesome hunter.

He takes it, drains it to the last drop and hands it back to her.
Their eyes meet, and his lips murmur very softly a Saxon's sweetest
word of endearment--"My darling!"

"Quarter-past eleven!" calls Sir Harry; and the gay cavalcade moves
off, and Hyacinthe, waving adieu to Lady Dering, watches it fade away
among the windings of the avenue.

"Mr. Chandoce has a green mount," mutters one of the footmen to
another.

"Yes, he have, but he's not a green horseman."

"No," admits the other.

Hyacinthe remembers their talk later in the day--that day that she
passes in such a restless wandering from one room to another--from the
conservatory to the library, and from music-room to hall. Finally, at
four o'clock she has composed herself with a book in the library, and
before the fire sits half lost in reading, half in wondering. Without,
the early gloom of the short day is gathering, and the bare trees cast
murk shadows all ac