She was not sorry to go—ah, no! The house had become a prison to her, with ghosts walking its dreary floors. But to lose Cicely would be bitter—she had not felt how bitter till the child pressed against her in the firelight, insisting raptly, with little sharp elbows stabbing her knee: "And then what happened, Justine?"
The door opened, and some one came in to look at the fire. Justine, through the mazes of her fairy-tale, was dimly conscious that it was Knowles, and not one of the footmen...the proud Knowles, who never mended the fires himself.... As he passed out again, hovering slowly down the long room, she rose, leaving Cicely on the hearth-rug, and followed him to the door.
"Has Mrs. Amherst not come in?" she asked, not knowing why she wished to ask it out of the child's hearing.
"No, miss. I looked in myself to see—thinking she might have come by the side-door."
"She may have gone to her sitting-room."
"She's not upstairs."
They both paused. Then Justine said: "What horse was she riding?"
"Impulse, Miss." The butler looked at his large responsible watch. "It's not late—" he said, more to himself than to her.
"No. Has she been riding Impulse lately?"
"No, Miss. Not since that day the mare nearly had her off. I understood Mr. Amherst did not wish it."