She stared, astonished; he shook his head.

“No, you don’t understand yet.  But you will.  Listen to me:  this very beautiful lady you have discovered is nothing to me!”

“Nothing—­to you!” she faltered.  Two pink spots of indignation burned in her cheeks.  “How—­how dare you say that!—­after all that has been done—­all that you have said.  You said you loved her; you did say so—­to me!”

“I don’t love her now.”

“But you did!” Tears of pure vexation started; she faced him, eye to eye, thoroughly incensed.

“What sort of man are you?” she said under her breath.  “Your friend Mr. Kerns is wrong.  You are not worth saving from yourself.”

“Kerns!” he repeated, angry and amazed.  “What the deuce has Kerns to do with this affair?”

She stared, then, realizing her indiscretion, bit her lip, and spurred forward.  But he put his horse to a gallop, and they pounded along in silence.  In a little while she drew bridle and looked around coldly, grave with displeasure.

“Mr. Kerns came to us before you did.  He said you would probably come, and he begged us to strain every effort in your behalf, because, he said, your happiness absolutely depended upon our finding for you the woman you were seeking. . . .  And I tried—­very hard—­and now she’s found.  You admit that—­and now you say—­”

“I say that one of these balmy summer days I’ll assassinate Tommy Kerns!” broke in Gatewood.  “What on earth possessed that prince of butters-in to go to Mr. Keen?”

“To save you from yourself!” retorted the girl in a low, exasperated voice.  “He did not say what threatened you; he is a good friend for a man to have.  But we soon found out what you were—­a man well born, well bred, full of brilliant possibility, who was slowly becoming an idle, cynical, self-centered egoist—­a man who, lacking the lash of need or the spur of ambition, was degenerating through the sheer uselessness and inanity of his life.  And, oh, the pity of it!  For Mr. Keen and I have taken a—­a curiously personal interest in you—­in your case.  I say, the pity of it!”

Astounded, dumb under her stinging words, he rode beside her through the brilliant sunshine, wheeled mechanically as she turned her horse, and rode north again.

“And now—­now!” she said passionately, “you turn on the woman you loved!  Oh, you are not worth it!”

“You are quite right,” he said, turning very white under her scorn.  “Almost all you have said is true enough, I fancy.  I amount to nothing; I am idle, cynical, selfish.  The emptiness of such a life requires a stimulant; even a fool abhors a vacuum.  So I drink—­not so very much yet—­but more than I realize.  And it is close enough to a habit to worry me. . . .  Yes, almost all you say is true; Kerns knows it; I know it—­now that you have told me.  You see, he couldn’t tell me, because I should not have believed him.  But I believe you—­all you say, except one thing.  And that is only a glimmer of decency left in me—­not that I make any merit of it.  No, it is merely instinctive.  For I have not turned on the woman I loved.”