Anthony helped Urith to the saddle, saying,

"I am not coming home just now. You must ride back alone."

"But why not?" Urith asked, in surprise, and a little disappointment.

"Must I account to you for all my acts?" said Anthony, somewhat testily.

"Not at all," answered Urith; "but surely there is no objection to my asking so innocent a question as that. If, however, it gives you displeasure, I will abide without an answer."

"Oh!" said Anthony, the cloud passing from his face, "I have no reason not to answer. I am going with Fox. He has asked me to return with him to Kilworthy; and as I have seen no one for a couple—nay, for three months, and have well-nigh lost the use of my tongue, I have accepted."

"I do not like Fox. I do not like you to be with him."

"Am I to consult you as to whom I make my friends? He is the only one who has come forward with frankness, and has braved my father's displeasure by showing me a countenance of old friendliness."

"I do not like Fox—I mistrust him."

"I do not," said Anthony, bluntly. "I am not going to take my opinions from you, Urith."

"I do not suppose you will," retorted she, with a little heat; "but do not forget what he did to you at the Drift. That was a false and cowardly act."

"Oh!" laughed Anthony, somewhat contemptuously; "you maidens do not understand the sort of jokes we men play on each other. He meant no harm, and things went worse than he intended. None can have been more vexed at the turn they took than himself. He told me so."

"What! That a horse should go mad when burning touchwood is set in his ear?"

"He did not purpose to put it into his ear. The horse tossed his head, and Fox's hand slipped."

"And his hand slipped when your fingers were cut?"

"No, not his hand, but his knife; it was in his sleeve. You would not have had it slip upwards?"

Urith was silent; she was angered, vexed—angered and vexed at Anthony's easy good-nature. Any excuse satisfied him. So with regard to his father's displeasure; it did not concern him greatly—cost him not an hour's wakefulness. All would come right in the end, he said, and satisfied himself with sanguine hope. His was a buoyant nature, the opposite to her own, which was gloomy and mistrustful. She raised no further objection to Anthony leaving her to return home alone. He was in a touchy mood, and, for the first time since their marriage, answered her testily.

But she made allowance for him. He had been cut off from his friends, he had been forced out of his wonted course of life. He had been pinched for money, obliged to work hard. Was it not reasonable that on a fair-day and holiday he should wish to be with his old companions and make merry, and have a glass of ale or a bottle of sack? Uncle Sol could not or would not accompany her home; he also had friends to detain him, and purposed to pass the evening in an alehouse singing and making merry.

Urith's knowledge of men, their ways, and their fancies, was limited to the study of her uncle; and though she could not believe that her Anthony was a sot and witless, yet she supposed that he partook of the same taste for society and for the bottle, which she regarded as much a characteristic of men as a rough chin and a masculine voice.

Anthony, with unconcern, was on his way to Kilworthy. This ancient mansion stood high, with its back to the north wind; before it the hills fell away in noble park-land studded with oak and beech over a century old—trees that had been planted by Judge Glanville in the reign of Elizabeth—and beyond the valley of the Tavy rose the tumbled, desolate ridges of Dartmoor, of a scabious blue, or wan as ashes.

The side of the hill was hewn away near the house into a series of terraces, one planted with yews, the others rich with flowers. The house itself had that stately beauty that belongs to Elizabethan mansions.

When Anthony arrived along with Fox, he was not a little surprised to see a large company assembled. Many of the young people and their parents of the best families around were there, sauntering in the gardens, or playing bowls on the green.

He was surprised, for Fox had not prepared him to meet company, but he was pleased, for he had been cut off from society for some months, had hardly seen old friends, and now he was delighted to be among them, and—his father being absent—on the old familiar terms. The depression of his spirits gave way at once, and he was filled with cheerfulness and fun; he played bowls, and when the dew fell, and it was deemed advisable for all to retire from the garden, he was most ready of all for a dance.

Julian was also in high spirits; she was looking remarkably pretty in a light summer dress. She met Anthony with frankness, and he engaged her for the first dance.

The beauty of the place, the pleasant society, the profusion of good food and wines, united to give Anthony satisfaction. He appreciated all this so much the more, as he had been deprived of these things for some time. It was true that he had enjoyed the company of Urith, but then Urith's circle of associates was almost nothing; she did not know those people that he knew, was not interested about matters that woke in him curiosity. She could talk only of Willsworthy, and Willsworthy as a subject of conversation was easily exhausted. There was a freedom in the society of those he now met, a want of constraint that delighted him. When one topic ran dry another was started. With Urith conversation flagged, because there was no variety in the subjects of conversation.

Then again the beauty and richness of the place gratified his eye after the bleakness of Willsworthy. There, high on the moor side, only sycamores would grow—here were trees of royal appearance, huge-trunked, with broad expanding branches, the aristocracy of trees as only seen in English parks, where they are given scope to expand from infancy. At home, moreover, the general narrowness of means and lack of management had not made of the table a place of enjoyment. A meal was necessary, something to be scrambled through and got over. No effort was made by Mrs. Malvine in earlier days to make it a gratification for the palate, and it did not occur to Urith when she was married and mistress of the household that things might in this respect be improved. Anthony was no epicure, but young men as well as old like to have palatable dishes set before them, and to have not only their wives well-dressed and tricked out, but also their dishes. Here also Urith failed. She disregarded personal adornment. Handsome though she was, she would have looked far handsomer had she cared to set off her charms with tasteful dress. She despised all solicitude about dress, and it was a little disappointment to Anthony that she took so little pains to do justice to herself in this respect. Now that he was in the midst of pretty girls, charmingly set off by their light gowns and bright ribbons, he felt as if he had stepped out of association with moths into that of butterflies—out of a vegetable, into a flower-garden.

Again, since his marriage—indeed, ever since he had left Hall, he had felt the irksomeness of being without money, he had discovered the value of coin, and had learned that it could not be thrown away. He had nothing of his own, what coins he had in his pocket came to him from his wife.

Now he was in a house where money seemed to be disregarded. He need not drink sour cider, but take his choice of wines. He was not served at table by one old maid-of-all-work, but by liveried footmen, in the blue and yellow Glanville colours. The table was furnished with abundance of plate, engraved with the Glanville stags or the Crymes martlet. At Willsworthy he had used bone-handled knives and forks, and had eaten off pewter.

He danced with Julian once more. She was bright, sparkling with merriment, full of lively sally, and she looked marvellously pretty. Anthony wondered at himself for not having observed it before, or at not having sufficiently appreciated it.

His sister arrived, somewhat late, and Anthony at once went to her, with both hands extended.

"Is Urith here?" she asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"She was not invited."

"Then why are you here?"

"For this good reason, that I was invited."

"But, Tony," said Bessie, "you ought not to have accepted unless she was asked as well."

"Nonsense! Bet," exclaimed Anthony, fretfully. "I am not tied to her apron-strings. We have not met for months, and your first address to me is—a rebuke."

He walked away, annoyed, and rejoined Julian.

What! was he to be debarred visiting his friends—spending a pleasant social evening with them—because he was asked without his wife!

"I say, Tony," said Fox, into his ear, "what do you think of Kilworthy now? You have thrown it away for the sake of a pair of sulky eyes—aye, and Hall, too? Well I have always heard say that love was madness; but I never believed it till I heard what you had done."

Anthony's pleasure was spoiled. The contrast between Kilworthy and Willsworthy had been unconsciously drawn in his mind before; now it was fixed and brought into prominence, and he saw and realised in a moment the tremendous sacrifice he had made. From this minute he looked on all around him with other eyes. He saw what might have been his position, his wealth—how he would have been esteemed and envied had he followed the course mapped out for him by his father—had he taken Julian instead of Urith.

He looked again at Julian—his eyes insensibly followed her—and again he marvelled that hitherto there had been a veil over them, so that he had not appreciated her beauty. He could not withdraw his eyes: they pursued her wherever she went.

All at once she turned, with the consciousness that he was looking at her. Their eyes met, and he coloured to the temples. He blushed at his thoughts, for he was asking himself whether life, with such comfortable surroundings, would not have been more than bearable—even delightful—at her side.

In a moment he had recovered himself; but not his lightheartedness—that was gone. He asked for his horse, and then remembered that he had none. Urith had ridden home on his horse, therefore he must walk.