“You would soon forget it,” he said, smiling again. “A title, after all, is not a thing a man wears on his coat. May I take it that if your parents consent you will at least not decide against me?”
“Don’t!” she exclaimed. “You have surprised and startled me so much I can hardly think coherently. You see, I am not used to receiving offers of marriage. This is my first. I suppose it is a great honor, but—let’s have a gallop, shall we? The horses must be quite tired of walking.”
Away she flew, at break-neck speed, after a shake of the reins and a word to Zephyr, who needed no whip to urge his pace, and gave Lord Carthew work indeed to follow him.
Flushed and out of breath, they at length drew up their steeds before the steps of the Chase, having re-entered the lodge gates after a spirited canter through the lanes, the horses neck to neck part of the time, but eventually with Zephyr a long way ahead. Stella was radiant and laughing as Lord Carthew sprang from his horse to assist her to dismount, the groom having been left jolting steadily far behind. Lord Carthew felt at that moment happier and more hopeful than he had ever been before, and both were talking and laughing in merry boy and girl fashion upon the result of their extempore race as they ascended the broad, shallow steps to the entrance of the house.
Before they had had time to touch the bell, the massive doors were opened to them, and just within the hall immediately before them stood the master of the house, pale, gray-haired, gray-eyed, his square face, with its handsome clear-cut features and unpleasantly sinister expression, shown up by the clear sunshine of an April day.
Lord Carthew glanced at Stella. All gayety and brightness had died from her face at sight of her father, and instead came that look of fixed self-repression and endurance which he had once before noted there.
“So you have been enjoying an early ride,” Sir Philip remarked to his daughter, in grating tones. “Have you and this gentleman been unattended, may I ask? If not, where is the groom?”
“His horse could not keep up with the others,” Stella answered, briefly.
“And who is this gentleman? May I have the honor of being presented to him?”
“Mr. Pritchard, my father, Sir Philip Cranstoun,” said the girl, in level tones, from which all the glad youthful ring had departed. “If you will excuse me,” she added, “I will go and change my habit.”