Mrs. Crane heard and looked forth again. A dozen or more gentlemen on
horseback rode slowly up the street; which of these was Lord Montfort?--
not difficult to distinguish. As the bystanders lifted their hats to the
cavalcade, the horsemen generally returned their salutation by simply
touching their own: one horseman uncovered wholly. That one must be the
Marquess, the greatest man in those parts, with lands stretching away on
either side that town for miles and miles,--a territory which in feudal
times might have alarmed a king. He, the civilest, must be the greatest.
A man still young, decidedly good-looking, wonderfully well-dressed,
wonderfully well-mounted, the careless ease of high rank in his air and
gesture. To the superficial gaze, just what the great Lord of Montfort
should be. Look again! In that fair face is there not something that
puts you in mind of a florid period which contains a feeble platitude?--
something in its very prettiness that betrays a weak nature and a sterile
mind?

The cavalcade passed away; the vans and the wagons again usurped the
thoroughfare. Arabella Crane left the window, and approached the little
looking-glass over the mantelpiece. She gazed upon her own face
bitterly; she was comparing it with the features of the dazzling
marchioness.

The door was flung open, and Jasper Losely sauntered in, whistling a
French air, and flapping the dust from his boots with his kid glove.

"All right," said he, gayly. "A famous day of it!"

"You have won," said Mrs. Crane, in a tone rather of disappointment than
congratulation.