They listened. Faintly, very faintly, could be heard the sound of hoof beats; rapid, though distant.
“Do you hear?” she whispered, and still held his arm.
“It's just like them to race back,” said Pembroke, with admirable nonchalance.
“But they wouldn't come back at this time—it's too early. Hugh always takes long rides. They started for Hubbard's—it's twelve miles.”
“Adele changes her mind every minute of the day,” he said.
“Listen!” she cried, and her clutch tightened. The hoof beats grew louder. “It's only one—it's only one horse!”
Before he could answer, she was already halfway up the garden path towards the house. He followed her as she ran panting through the breakfast room, the dining room, and drawing-room, and when they reached the hall, Starling, the butler, and two footmen were going out at the door. A voice—Mrs. Kame's—cried out, “What is it?” over the stairs, but they paid no heed. As they reached the steps they beheld the slight figure of Mrs. Rindge on a flying horse coming towards them up the driveway. Her black straw hat had slipped to the back of her neck, her hair was awry, her childish face white as paper. Honora put her hand to her heart. There was no need to tell her the news—she had known these many hours.
Mrs. Rindge's horse came over the round grass-plot of the circle and planted his fore feet in the turf as she pulled him up. She lurched forward. It was Starling who lifted her off—George Pembroke stood by Honora.
“My God, Adele,” he exclaimed, “why don't you speak?”
She was staring at Honora.