for a run."
She looked at the chauffeur, who was quick to take the hint. Presently they were bowling along between the hedgerows, she conscious that his eyes were paying more attention to her than she quite relished. A fact of which his words immediately gave evidence.
"You like it. This feeling of flight through the air, which you can command by touching a handle, supplies you with an evanescent interest in life which, in ordinary, everyday existence you find lacking."
"What do you mean?"
"Is it necessary that I should tell you? Do you wish me to?"
"Do you mean that, as a general rule, I don't take an interest in things?"
"Do you? At your age, in your position, you ought to take an interest in everything. But the impression you convey to my mind is that you don't, that you take an interest in nothing. You try to, sometimes, pretty hard. But you never quite succeed. I don't know why. You remind me, in some odd way, of the impersonal attitude of a spectator who looks on at something with which he never expects to have any personal concern."
"I don't know what you're talking about, I don't believe you do either. You say the strangest things."
"You don't find them strange, you understand them better than I do. I am many years older than you-ye Goths, how many! I am tolerably blasé, as befits my age. But you, you are tired-mortally tired-of everything already. I've not yet reached that stage. You don't know what keenness means; thank goodness there are still a good many things which I am keen about. Just as something turns up for which you're on the point of really caring, a shadow steps from the back of your mind to the front, and stops you. I don't know what it is, but I know it's there."
"I'm going back."
As this man spoke something tugged at her heartstrings which filled her with a sort of terror. If he was beginning to regard her attitude towards life-of which she herself was only too hideously conscious-as a problem, the solution of which he had set himself to find out, what might the consequences not be? Then she could not stop to think. She swung the car round towards home. As if in obedience to her unspoken hint he changed the subject, speaking with that calm assumption of authority which galled her the more because she found herself so frequently compelled to submission.
"You must teach me to drive this machine of yours."
"My mechanician will be able to do that better than I can, I am myself only a tyro."
"Thank you, I prefer that you should teach me. Which handle do you move to stop?" She showed him. "And which to start?" She showed him again.
Before they parted, she had put him, however unwillingly, through quite a small course of elementary instruction. In consequence of which she had a bad quarter of an hour, when, later, she was in her own sitting-room, alone.
"He frightens me! He makes me do things I don't want to do; and then-he seems to know me better than I know myself. Is it so obvious that I find it difficult to take a real interest in things? or has he a preternaturally keen sense of perception? Either way it isn't nice for me. It's true enough; nothing does interest me. How should it? What does money, and all that matter; when there's that-shadow-in the prison, coming closer to me, day by day? I believe that being where I am-Miss Arnott of Exham Park-makes it worse, because if it weren't for the shadow, it would be so different-so different!"
That night she dreamed of Hugh Morice. She and he were on the motor car together, flying through the sunshine, on and on and on, happy as the day was bright, and the road was fair. Suddenly the sun became obscured, all the world was dark; they were approaching a chasm. Although it was so dark she knew that it was there. In a wild frenzy of fear she tried to stop the car, to find, all at once, that it had no brake. She made to leap out on to the road, but Mr Morice seized her round the waist and held her. In another moment they were dashing over the edge of an abyss, into the nameless horrors which lay below.
It was not a pleasant dream, it did not leave an agreeable impression on her mind after she was awake. But dreams are only dreams. Sensible people pay no heed to them. Miss Arnott proved herself to be sensible at least in that respect. She did not, ever afterwards, refuse him a seat in her car, because she had once, in a nightmare, come to grief in his society. On the contrary, she not only took him for other drives, but- imitating her own experience with the Earl of Peckham, when, after a while-it was a very little while-he had attained to a certain degree of proficiency, she suffered him to drive her. And, as she had done, he liked driving so much that, before long, he also had an automobile of his own.
Then a new phase of the affair commenced. It was, of course, necessary that-with a view of extending her experience, and increasing her knowledge of motor cars-she should try her hand at driving his. She tried her hand, a first and a second time, perhaps a third. She admitted that his car was not a bad one. It had its points-but slight vibration, little noise, scarcely any smell. It ran sweetly, was a good climber, easy to steer. Certainly a capital car. So much she was ready to allow. But, at the same time, she could not but express her opinion that, on the whole, hers was a better one. There they joined issue. At first, Mr Morice was disposed to doubt, he was inclined to think that perhaps, for certain reasons, the lady's car might be a shade the superior. But, by degrees, as he became more accustomed to his new possession, he changed his mind. He was moved to state his conviction that, as a matter of fact, the superiority lay with his own car.
Whereupon both parties proceeded to demonstrate with which of the pair the palm of merit really lay. They ran all sorts of trials together-trials which sometimes resulted in extremely warm arguments; and by which, somehow, very little was proved. At anyrate, each party was always ready to discount the value of the conclusion at which the other had arrived.
One fact was noticeable-as evidence of the keen spirit of emulation. Wherever one car was the other was nearly sure to be somewhere near at hand.
Mrs Plummer, who had a gift of silence, said little. But one remark she made did strike Miss Arnott as peculiar.
"Mr Morice doesn't seem to have so many friends, or even acquaintances, as I should have expected in a man in his position."
"How do you know he hasn't?"
"I say he doesn't seem to have. He never has anyone at his own house, and he never goes to anyone else's. He always seems to be alone."
Miss Arnott was still. Mrs Plummer had not accentuated it in the slightest degree; yet the young lady wondered in what sense-in that construction-she had used the word "alone."
One day, when she was in town, Miss Arnott did a singular thing. Having deposited Mrs Plummer in a large drapery establishment, with peremptory instructions to make certain considerable purchases, she went off in a hansom by herself to an address in the Temple. Having arrived, she perceived in the hall of the house she had entered a board, on which were painted a number of names. Her glance rested on one-First floor, Mr Whitcomb. Without hesitation she ascended to the first floor, until she found herself confronted by a door on which that name appeared in black letters. She knocked; the door was opened by a very young gentleman.
"Can I see Mr Whitcomb?" she inquired.
"What name? Have you an appointment?"
"I have not an appointment, and my name is of no consequence. I wish to see Mr Whitcomb on very particular business."
The young gentleman looked at her askance, as if he was of opinion-which he emphatically was-that she was not at all the sort of person he was accustomed to see outside that door.
"Mr Whitcomb doesn't generally see people without an appointment, especially if he doesn't know their
