After her demonstration against Scarsmoor Castle, the Marchesa went in to lunch. But there were objects of her wrath nearer home also. She received Norah's salute—they had not met before, that morning—with icy coldness.

"I'm better, thank you," she said, "but you must be feeling tired—having been up so very early in the morning! And you—Violet—have you been over to Scarsmoor again?"

Violet had heard from Norah all about the latter's morning adventure. They exchanged uneasy glances. Yet they were prepared to back one another up. The men looked more frightened; men are frightened when women quarrel.

"One of you," continued the Marchesa accusingly, "pursues Lord Lynborough to his own threshold—the other flirts with him in my own meadow! Rather peculiar signs of friendship for me under the present circumstances—don't you think so, Colonel Wenman?"

The Colonel thought so—though he would have greatly preferred to be at liberty to entertain—or at least to express—no opinion on so thorny a point.

"Flirt with him? What do you mean?" But Norah's protest lacked the ring of honest indignation.

"Kissing one's hand to a mere stranger——"

"How do you know that? You were in bed."

"Carlotta saw you from her window. You don't deny it?"

"No, I don't," said Norah, perceiving the uselessness of such a course. "In fact, I glory in it. I had a splendid time with Lord Lynborough. Oh, I did try to keep him out for you—but he jumped over my head."

Sensation among the gentlemen! Increased scorn on the Marchesa's face!

"And when I got John Goodenough to help me, he just laid John down on the grass as—as I lay that spoon on the table! He's splendid, Helena!"

"He seems a good sort of chap," said Irons thoughtfully.

The Marchesa looked at Wenman.

"Nothing to be said for the fellow, nothing at all," declared the Colonel hastily.

"Thank you, Colonel Wenman. I'm glad I have one friend left anyhow. Oh, besides you, Mr. Stillford, of course. Oh, and you, dear old Jennie, of course. You wouldn't forsake me, would you?"

The tone of affection was calculated to gratify Miss Gilletson. But against it had to be set the curious and amused gaze of Norah and Violet. Seen by these two ladies in the act of descending from a stylish (and coroneted) victoria in the drive of Nab Grange, Miss Gilletson had, pardonably perhaps, broken down rather severely in cross-examination. She had been so very proud of the roses—so very full of Lord Lynborough's graces! She was conscious now that the pair held her in their hands and were demanding courage from her.

"Forsake you, dearest Helena? Of course not! There's no question of that with any of us."

"Yes—there is—with those of you who make friends with that wretch at Scarsmoor!"

"Really, Helena, you shouldn't be so—so vehement. I'm not sure it's ladylike. It's absurd to call Lord Lynborough a wretch." The pale faint flush again adorned her fading cheeks. "I never met a man more thoroughly a gentleman."

"You never met—" began the Marchesa in petrified tones. "Then you have met—?" Again her words died away.

Miss Gilletson took her courage in both hands.

"Circumstances threw us together. I behaved as a lady does under such circumstances, Helena. And Lord Lynborough was, under the circumstances, most charming, courteous, and considerate." She gathered more courage as she proceeded. "And really it's highly inconvenient having that gate locked, Helena. I had to come all the way round by the road."

"I'm sorry if you find yourself fatigued," said the Marchesa with formal civility.

"I'm not fatigued, thank you, Helena. I should have been terribly—but for Lord Lynborough's kindness in sending me home in his carriage."

A pause followed. Then Norah and Violet began to giggle.

"It was so funny this morning!" said Norah—and boldly launched on a full story of her adventure. She held the attention of the table. The Marchesa sat in gloomy silence. Violet chimed in with more reminiscences of her visit to Scarsmoor; Miss Gilletson contributed new items, including that matter of the roses. Norah ended triumphantly with a eulogy on Lynborough's extraordinary physical powers. Captain Irons listened with concealed interest. Even Colonel Wenman ventured to opine that the enemy was worth fighting. Stillford imitated his hostess's silence, but he was watching her closely. Would her courage—or her obstinacy—break down under these assaults, this lukewarmness, these desertions? In his heart, fearful of that lawsuit, he hoped so.

"I shall prosecute him for assaulting Goodenough," the Marchesa announced.

"Goodenough touched him first!" cried Norah.

"That doesn't matter, since I'm in the right. He had no business to be there. That's the law, isn't it, Mr. Stillford? Will he be sent to prison or only heavily fined?"

"Well—er—I'm rather afraid—neither, Marchesa. You see, he'll plead his right, and the Bench would refer us to our civil remedy and dismiss the summons. At least that's my opinion."

"Of course that's right," pronounced Norah in an authoritative tone.

"If that's the English law," observed the Marchesa, rising from the table, "I greatly regret that I ever settled in England."

"What are you going to do this afternoon, Helena? Going to play tennis—or croquet?"

"I'm going for a walk, thank you, Violet." She paused for a moment and then added, "By myself."

"Oh, mayn't I have the privilege—?" began the Colonel.

"Not to-day, thank you, Colonel Wenman. I—I have a great deal to think about. We shall meet again at tea—unless you're all going to tea at Scarsmoor Castle!" With this Parthian shot she left them.

She had indeed much to think of—and her reflections were not cast in a cheerful mold. She had underrated her enemy. It had seemed sufficient to lock the gate and to forbid Lynborough's entry. These easy measures had appeared to leave him no resource save blank violence: in that confidence she had sat still and done nothing. He had been at work—not by blank violence, but by cunning devices and subtle machinations. He had made a base use of his personal fascinations, of his athletic gifts, even of his lordly domain, his garden of roses, and his carriage. She perceived his strategy; she saw now how he had driven in his wedges. Her ladies had already gone over to his side; even her men were shaken. Stillford had always been lukewarm; Irons was fluttering round Lynborough's flame; Wenman might still be hers—but an isolation mitigated only by Colonel Wenman seemed an isolation not mitigated in the least. When she had looked forward to a fight, it had not been to such a fight as this. An enthusiastic, hilarious, united Nab Grange was to have hurled laughing defiance at Scarsmoor Castle. Now more than half Nab Grange laughed—but its laughter was not at the Castle; its laughter, its pitying amusement, was directed at her; Lynborough's triumphant campaign drew all admiration. He had told Stillford that he would harry her; he was harrying her to his heart's content—and to a very soreness in hers.

For the path—hateful Beach Path which her feet at this moment trod—became now no more than an occasion for battle, a symbol of strife. The greater issue stood out. It was that this man had peremptorily challenged her to a fight—and was beating her! And he won his victory, not by male violence in spite of male stupidity, but by just the arts and the cunning which should have been her own weapons. To her he left the blunt, the inept, the stupid and violent methods. He chose the more refined, and wielded them like a master. It was a position to which the Marchesa's experience had not accustomed her—one to which her spirit was by no means attuned.

What was his end—that end whose approach seemed even now clearly indicated? It was to convict her at once of cowardice and of pig-headedness, to exhibit her as afraid to bring him to book by law, and yet too churlish to cede him his rights. He would get all her friends to think that about her. Then she would be left alone—to fight a lost battle all alone.

Was he right in his charge? Did it truly describe her conduct? For any truth there might be in it, she declared that he was himself to blame. He had forced the fight on her by his audacious demand for instant surrender; he had given her no fair time for consideration, no opportunity for a dignified retreat. He had offered her no choice save between ignominy and defiance. If she chose defiance, his rather than hers was the blame.

Suddenly—across these dismal broodings—there shot a new idea. Fas est et ab hoste doceri; she did not put it in Latin, but it came to the same thing—Couldn't she pay Lynborough back in his own coin? She had her resources—perhaps she had been letting them lie idle! Lord Lynborough did not live alone at Scarsmoor. If there were women open to his wiles at the Grange, were there no men open to hers at Scarsmoor? The idea was illuminating; she accorded it place in her thoughts.

She was just by the gate. She took out her key, opened the padlock, closed the gate behind her, but did not lock it, walked on to the road, and surveyed the territory of Scarsmoor.

Fate helps those who help themselves: her new courage of brain and heart had its reward. She had not been there above a minute when Roger Wilbraham came out from the Scarsmoor gates.

Lynborough had, he considered, done enough for one day. He was awaiting the results of to-morrow's manoeuvers anent the cricket match. But he amused himself after lunch by proffering to Roger a wager that he would not succeed in traversing Beach Path from end to end, and back again, alone, by his own unassisted efforts, and without being driven to ignominious flight. Without a moment's hesitation Roger accepted. "I shall just wait till the coast's clear," he said.

"Ah, but they'll see you from the windows! They will be on the lookout," Lynborough retorted.

The Marchesa had strolled a little way down the road. She was walking back toward the gate when Roger first came in sight. He did not see her until after he had reached the gate. There he stood a moment, considering at what point to attack it—for the barricade was formidable. He came to the same conclusion as Lynborough had reached earlier in the day. "Oh, I'll jump the wall," he said.

"The gate isn't locked," remarked a charming voice just behind him.

He turned round with a start and saw—he had no doubt whom she was. The Marchesa's tall slender figure stood before him—all in white, crowned by a large, yet simple, white hat; her pale olive cheeks were tinged with underlying red (the flush of which Lynborough had dreamed!); her dark eyes rested on the young man with a kindly languid interest; her very red lips showed no smile, yet seemed to have one in ready ambush. Roger was overcome; he blushed and stood silent before the vision.

"I expect you're going to bathe? Of course this is the shortest way, and I shall be so glad if you'll use it. I'm going to the Grange myself, so I can put you on your way."

Roger was honest. "I—I'm staying at the Castle."

"I'll tell somebody to be on the lookout and open the gate for you when you come back," said she.

If Norah was no match for Lynborough, Roger was none for the Marchesa's practised art.

"You're—you're awfully kind. I—I shall be delighted, of course."

The Marchesa passed through the gate. Roger followed. She handed him the key.

"Will you please lock the padlock? It's not—safe—to leave the gate open."

Her smile had come into the open—it was on the red lips now! For all his agitation Roger was not blind to its meaning. His hand was to lock the gate against his friend and chief! But the smile and the eyes commanded. He obeyed.

It was the first really satisfactory moment which the contest had brought to the Marchesa—some small instalment of consolation for the treason of her friends.

Roger had been honestly in love once with a guileless maiden—who had promptly and quite unguilefully refused him; his experience did not at all fit him to cope with the Marchesa. She, of course, was merciless: was he not of the hated house? As an individual, however, he appeared to be comely and agreeable.

They walked on side by side—not very quickly. The Marchesa's eyes were now downcast. Roger was able to steal a glance at her profile; he could compare it to nothing less than a Roman Empress on an ancient silver coin.

"I suppose you've been taught to think me a very rude and unneighborly person, haven't you, Mr. Wilbraham? At least I suppose you're Mr. Wilbraham? You don't look old enough to be that learned Mr. Stabb the Vicar told me about. Though he said Mr. Stabb was absolutely delightful—how I should love to know him, if only—!" She broke off, sighing deeply.

"Yes, my name's Wilbraham. I'm Lynborough's secretary. But—er—I don't think anything of that sort about you. And—and I've never heard Lynborough say anything—er—unkind."

"Oh, Lord Lynborough!" She gave a charming little shrug, accompanied with what Roger, from his novel-reading, conceived to be a moue.

"Of course I—I know that you—you think you're right," he stammered.

She stopped on the path. "Yes, I do think I'm right, Mr. Wilbraham. But that's not it. If it were merely a question of right, it would be unneighborly to insist. I'm not hurt by Lord Lynborough's using this path. But I'm hurt by Lord Lynborough's discourtesy. In my country women are treated with respect—even sometimes (she gave a bitter little laugh) with deference. That doesn't seem to occur to Lord Lynborough."

"Well, you know——"

"Oh, I can't let you say a word against him, whatever you may be obliged to think. In your position—as his friend—that would be disloyal; and the one thing I dislike is disloyalty. Only I was anxious"—she turned and faced him—"that you should understand my position—and that Mr. Stabb should too. I shall be very glad if you and Mr. Stabb will use the path whenever you like. If the gate's locked you can manage the wall!"

"I'm—I'm most awfully obliged to you—er—Marchesa—but you see——"

"No more need be said about that, Mr. Wilbraham. You're heartily welcome. Lord Lynborough would have been heartily welcome too, if he would have approached me properly. I was open to discussion. I received orders. I don't take orders—not even from Lord Lynborough."

She looked splendid—so Roger thought. The underlying red dyed the olive to a brighter hue; her eyes were very proud; the red lips shut decisively. Just like a Roman Empress! Then her face underwent a rapid transformation; the lips parted, the eyes laughed, the cheeks faded to hues less stormy, yet not less beautiful. (These are recorded as Mr. Wilbraham's impressions.) Lightly she laid the tips of her fingers on his arm for just a moment.

"There—don't let's talk any more about disagreeable things," she said. "It's too beautiful an afternoon. Can you spare just five minutes? The strawberries are splendid! I want some—and it's so hot to pick them for one's self!"

Roger paused, twisting the towel round his neck.

"Only five minutes!" pleaded—yes, pleaded—the beautiful Marchesa. "Then you can go and have your swim in peace."

It was a question whether poor Roger was to do anything more in peace that day—but he went and picked the strawberries.