"I know," said Ida, quietly, as she looked at the graceful horsewoman,
at the lithe, full figure, the cold perfection of the Grecian face.
"That is Miss Falconer: it is, is it not?"
He nodded indifferently.
"And she has seen us," said Ida.
"It doesn't matter in the least," said Stafford. "Why shouldn't she?
But I don't think she has; she did not turn her head as she rode by."
"That is why," said Ida, with her woman's acuteness. "She saw us from
the top of the hill--see, the groom is just riding down."
She was silent a moment or two, watching Maude Falconer as she cantered
away, then she shivered as if with cold.
"What is the matter, dearest?" he asked, drawing her to him. "Why did
you shudder?"
She tried to laugh, but her eyes were grave and almost solemn. "I don't
know. It was as if someone had walked over my grave; as if I felt the
presentiment of some coming evil. I never felt like it before--Yes: she
is very beautiful, Stafford. She is like a picture, a statue--no, that
is not fair; for no picture had ever such magnificent hair, no statue
was ever so full of life and--Oh, I want a word--power.
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