“Out the road past the West Wood marshes, please—­straight out.  Take it moderately; we’re going about twelve miles and it’s pretty warm yet.”

There was not much talking while they were within the city limits—­nor after they were past, for that matter.  Rosamond, ahead with her husband, kept up a more or less fitful conversation with him, but the pair behind said little.  Richard made no allusion to his letter of the morning beyond a declaration of his gratitude to the whole party for falling in with his plans.  But the silence was somehow more suggestive of the great subject waiting for expression than any exchange of words could have been, out here in the open.  Only once did the man’s impatience to begin overcome his resolution to await the fitting hour.

Turning in his saddle as Colonel fell momentarily behind, passing the West Wood marshes, Richard allowed his eyes to rest upon horse and rider with full intent to take in the picture they made.

“I haven’t ventured to let myself find out just how you look,” he said.  “The atmosphere seems to swim around you; I see you through a sort of haze.  Do you suppose there can be anything the matter with my eyesight?”

“I should think there must be,” she replied demurely.  “It seems a serious symptom.  Hadn’t you better turn back?”

“While you go on?  Not if I fall off my horse.  I have a suspicion that it’s made up of a curious compound of feelings which I don’t dare to describe.  But—­may I tell you?—­I must tell you—­I never saw anything so beautiful in my life as—­yourself, to-day.  I—­” He broke off abruptly.  “Do you see that old rosebush there by those burnt ruins of a house?  Amber-white roses, and sweet as—­I saw them there yesterday when I went by.  Let me get them for you.”

He rode away into the deserted yard and up to a tangle of neglected shrubbery.  He had some difficulty in getting Thunderbolt—­who was as restless a beast as his name implied—­to stand still long enough to allow him to pick a bunch of the buds; he would have nothing but buds just breaking into bloom.  These he presently brought back to Roberta.  She fancied that he had planned to stop here for this very purpose.  Clearly he had the artist’s eye for finishing touches.  He watched her fasten the roses upon the breast of the blue-cloth habit, then he turned determinedly away.

“If I don’t look at you again,” said he, his eyes straight before him, “it’s because I can’t do it—­and keep my head.  You accused me once of losing it under a winter moon; this is a summer sun—­more dangerous yet....  Shall we talk about the crops?  This is fine weather for growing things, isn’t it?”

“Wonderful.  I haven’t been out this road this season—­as far as this.  I’m beginning to wonder where you are taking us.”

“To the hill where you and Miss Ruth and Ted and I toasted sandwiches last November.  Could there be a better place for the end—­of our ride?  You haven’t been out here this season—­are you sure?”