She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. His expression altered. "Souls," she answered, drily. His advice was mostly practical. It's only a gentleman come to offer you his hand. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. “If any one should know——you should! He was your friend. Manning, Lady Palsworthy’s nephew, a tall young man of seven-and-thirty with a handsome, thoughtful, impassive face, a full black mustache, and a certain heavy luxuriousness of gesture. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted.
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