From her saddle Mrs. Ferrall could see the advance, strung out far afield from the dark spots moving along the Fells boundary, to the two couples traversing the salt meadows to north. Crack! A distant report came faintly over the uplands against the wind.
"Voucher," observed Ferrall; "probably a snipe. Hark! he's struck them again, Grace."
Mrs. Ferrall, watching curiously, saw Siward's gun fly up as two big dark spots floated up from the marsh and went swinging over his head. Crack! Crack! Down sheered the black spots, tumbling earthward out of the sky.
"Duck," said Ferrall; "a double for Stephen. Lord Harry! how that man can shoot! Isn't it a pity that--"
He said no more; his pretty wife astride her thoroughbred sat silent, grey eyes fixed on the distant figures of Sylvia Landis and Siward, now shoulder deep in the reeds.
"Was it--very bad last night?" she asked in a low voice.
Ferrall shrugged. "He was not offensive; he walked steadily enough up-stairs. When I went into his room he lay on the bed as if he'd been struck by lightning. And yet--you see how he is this morning?"
"After a while," his wife said, "it is going to alter him some day--dreadfully--isn't it, Kemp?"
"You mean--like Mortimer?"
"Yes--only Leroy was always a pig."
As they turned their horses toward the high-road Mrs. Ferrall said: "Do you know why Sylvia isn't shooting with Howard?"
"No," replied her husband indifferently; "do you?"
"No." She looked out across the sunlit ocean, grave grey eyes brightening with suppressed mischief. "But I half suspect."
"What?"
"Oh, all sorts of things, Kemp."
"What's one of 'em?" asked Ferrall, looking around at her; but his wife only laughed.
"You don't mean she's throwing her flies at Siward--now that you've hooked Quarrier for her! I thought she'd played him to the gaff--"
"Please don't be coarse, Kemp," said Mrs. Ferrall, sending her horse forward. Her husband spurred to her side, and without turning her head she continued: "Of course Sylvia won't be foolish. If they were only safely married; but Howard is such a pill--"
"What does Sylvia expect with Howard's millions? A man?"
Grace Ferrall drew bridle. "The curious thing is, Kemp, that she liked him."
"Likes him?"
"No, liked him. I saw how it was; she took his silences for intellectual meditation, his gallery, his library, his smatterings for expressions of a cultivated personality. Then she remembered how close she came to running off with that cashiered Englishman, and that scared her into clutching the substantial in the shape of Howard. … Still, I wish I hadn't meddled."
"Meddled how?"
"Oh, I told her to do it. We had talks until daylight. … She may marry him--I don't know--but if you think any live woman could be contented with a muff like that!"