He did not want to marry her.  With that deed demanding to be done, the necessity for it began to be questioned sharply.  He was not a marrying man and, in any case, too young to commit himself and his prospects to such a course.  He assured himself that he had never contemplated immediate marriage; he had never suggested it to Sabina.  She herself had not suggested it; for what advantage could be gained by such a step?  While a thousand disasters might spring therefrom, not the least being a quarrel with his brother, there was nothing to be said for it.  He began to suspect that he could do little less likely to assure Sabina’s future.  He clung to his strand of chivalry at this time, like a drowning man to a straw; but other ingredients of his nature dragged him away.  Selfishness is the parent of sophistry, and Raymond found himself dismissing old rules of morality and inherited instincts of religion and justice for more practical and worldly values.  He told himself it was as much for Sabina’s sake as for his own that he must now respect the dictates of common-sense.

There came a day in October, when the young man sat in his office at the mills, smoking and absorbed with his own affairs.  The river Bride was broken above the works, and while her way ran south of them, the mill-race came north.  Its labour on the wheel accomplished, the current turned quickly back to the river bed again.  From Raymond’s window he could see the main stream, under a clay bank, where the martins built their nests in spring, and where rush and sedge and an over-hanging sallow marked her windings.  The sunshine found the stickles, and where Bride skirted the works lay a pool in which trout moved.  Water buttercups shone silver white in this back-water at spring-time and the water-voles had their haunts in the bank side.

Beyond stretched meadow-lands and over the hill that rose behind them climbed the road to the cliffs.  Hounds had ascended this road two hours before and their music came faintly from afar to Raymond’s ear, then ceased.  Already his relations with Sabina had lessened his will to pleasure in other directions.  His money had gone in gifts to her, leaving no spare cash for the old amusements; but the distractions, that for a time had seemed so tame contrasted with the girl, cried louder and reminded how necessary and healthy they were.

Life seemed reduced to the naked question of cash.  He was sorry for himself.  It looked hard, outrageous, wrong, that tastes so sane and simple as his own, could not be gratified.  A horseman descended the hill and Raymond recognised him.  It was Neddy Motyer.  His horse was lame and he walked beside it.  Raymond smiled to himself, for Neddy, though a zealous follower of hounds, lacked judgment and often met with disaster.

Ten minutes later Neddy himself appeared.

“Come to grief,” he said.  “Horse put his foot into a rabbit hole and cut his knee on a flint.  I’ve just taken him to the vet, here to be bandaged, so I thought I’d look you up.  Why weren’t you out?”