Her face was pale as her level eyes met him: 

“You said she was nothing to you. . . .  Look there!  Do you see her?  Do you see?”

Her voice broke nervously as he swung around to stare at a rider bearing down at a gallop—­a woman on a big roan, tearing along through the spring sunshine, passing them with wind-flushed cheeks and dark, incurious eyes, while her powerful horse carried her on, away through the quivering light and shadow of the woodland vista.

“Is that the person?”

“Y-es,” she faltered.  “Was I wrong?”

“Quite wrong, Miss Southerland.”

“But—­but you said you had seen her here this morning!”

“Yes, I have.”

“Did you speak to her before you met me?”

“No—­not before I met you.”

“Then you have not spoken to her.  Is she still here in the Park?”

“Yes, she is still here.”

The girl turned on him excitedly:  “Do you mean to say that you will not speak to her?”

“I had rather not—­”

“And your happiness depends on your speaking?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is cowardly not to speak.”

“Oh, yes, it is cowardly. . . .  If you wish me to speak to her I will.  Shall I?”

“Yes . . .  Show her to me.”

“And you think that such a man as I am has a right to speak of love to her?”

“I—­we believe it will be your salvation.  Mr. Kerns says you must marry her to be happy.  Mr. Keen told me yesterday that it only needed a word from the right woman to put you on your mettle. . . .  And—­and that is my opinion.”

“Then in charity say that word!” he breathed, bending toward her.  “Can’t you see?  Can’t you understand?  Don’t you know that from the moment I looked into your eyes I loved you?”

“How—­how dare you!” she stammered, crimsoning.

“God knows,” he said wistfully.  “I am a coward.  I don’t know how I dared.  Good-by. . . .”

He walked his horse a little way, then launched him into a gallop, tearing on and on, sun, wind, trees swimming, whirling like a vision, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, save the leaden pounding of his pulse and the breathless, terrible tightening in his throat.

When he cleared his eyes and looked around he was quite alone, his horse walking under the trees and breathing heavily.

At first he laughed, and the laugh was not pleasant.  Then he said aloud:  “It is worth having lived for, after all!”—­and was silent.  And again:  “I could expect nothing; she was perfectly right to side-step a fool. . . .  And such a fool!”

The distant gallop of a horse, dulled on the soft soil, but coming nearer, could not arouse him from the bitter depths he had sunk in; not even when the sound ceased beside him, and horse snorted recognition to horse.  It was only when a light touch rested on his arm that he looked up heavily, caught his breath.