202 The Real Charlotte. 



often and so dismally, with nothing to do except nose about 

 the broken manger for a stray oat or two, or make spiteful 

 faces through the rails at her comrade, the chestnut, in the 

 next stall. Lambert swung open the stable door, and was 

 confronted by the pricked ears and interested countenance 

 of a tall bay horse, whom he instantly recognised as being 

 one of the Bruff carriage horses, lookmg out of the loose- 

 box. Mr. Lambert's irritation culminated at this point in 

 appropriate profanity ; he felt that all these thmgs were 

 against him, and the thought that he would go straight back 

 to Rosemount made him stand still on the doorstep. But 

 the next moment he had a vision of himself and the two 

 horses turning in at the Rosemount gate, with the certain 

 prospect of being laughed at by Charlotte and condoled 

 with by his wife, and without so much as a sight of that 

 maddening face that was every day thrusting itself more and 

 more between him and his peace. It would be a confession 

 of defeat at the hands of Christopher Dysart, which alone 

 would be intolerable ; besides, there wasn't a doubt but 

 that, if Francie were given her choice, she would rather go 

 out riding with him than anything. 



Buoyed up by this reflection, he put the chestnut into the 

 stable, and the mare mto the cow-shed, and betook himself 

 to the house. The hall door was open, and stepping over 

 the cats on the door-mat, he knocked lightly at the drawing- 

 room door, and walked in without waiting for an answer. 

 Christopher was sitting with his back to him, holding one 

 end of a folded piece of pink cambric, while Francie, stand- 

 ing up in front of him, was cutting along the fold towards 

 him, with a formidable pair of scissors. 



" Must I hold on to the end ? " he was saying, as the 

 scissors advanced in leaps towards his fingers. 



" I'll kill you if you let go ! " answered Francie, rather 

 thickly, by reason of a pin between her front teeth. " Good- 

 ness, Mr. Lambert ! you frightened the heels off me ! I 

 thought you were Louisa with the tea." 



" Good evening, Francie ; good evening, Dysart," said 

 Lambert with solemn frigidity. 



Christopher reddened a little as he looked round. " I'm 

 afraid I can't shake hands with you, Lambert," he said 

 with an unavoidably foolish laugh, " I'm dressmaking." 



