Portlaw was convinced that his hair was stirring under his cap.  He was horribly afraid of the law.

“See here, Alida,” he said, assuming the bluff rough-diamond front which the alarm in his eyes made foolish, “I want to settle this little difference and be friends with you again.  I was wrong; I admit it....  Of course I might very easily defend such a suit—­”

“But, of course”—­serenely undeceived—­“as you admit you are in the wrong you will scarcely venture to defend such a suit. Your lawyers ought to forbid you to talk about this case, particularly”—­with a demure smile—­“to the plaintiff.”

“Alida,” he said, “I am determined to remain your friend.  You may do what you will, say what you wish, yes, even use my own words against me, but”—­and virtue fairly exuded from every perspiring pore—­“I will not retaliate!”

“I’m afraid you can’t, William,” she said softly.

“Won’t you—­forgive?” he asked in a melting voice; but his eyes were round with apprehension.

“There are some things that no woman can overlook,” she said.

“I’ll send my men down to fix that bridge—­”

“Bridges can be mended; I was not speaking of the bridge.”

“You mean those sheep—­”

“No, Mr. Portlaw.”

“Well, there’s a lot—­I mean that some little sand has been washed over your meadow—­”

“Good night,” she said, turning her horse’s head.

“Isn’t it the sand, Alida?” he pleaded.  “You surely will forgive that timber-cutting—­and the shooting of a few migratory birds—­”

“Good night,” touching her gray mare forward to where he was awkwardly blocking the wood-path....  “Do you mind moving a trifle, Mr. Portlaw?”

“About—­ah—­the—­down there, you know, at Palm Beach,” he stammered, “at that accursed lawn-party—­”

“Yes?” She smiled but her eyes harboured lightning.

“It was so hot in Florida—­you know how infernally hot it was, don’t you, Alida?” he asked beseechingly.  “I scarcely dared leave the Beach Club.”

“Well?”

“I—­I thought I’d just m-m-mention it.  That’s why I didn’t call on you—­I was afraid of sunstroke—­”

“What!” she exclaimed, astonished at his stuttering audacity.

He knew he was absurd, but it was all he could think of.  She gave him time enough to realise the pitiable spectacle he was making of himself, sitting her horse motionless, pretty eyes bent on his—­an almost faultless though slight figure, smooth as a girl’s yet faintly instinct with that charm of ripened adolescence just short of maturity.

And, slowly, under her clear gaze, a confused comprehension began to stir in him—­at first only a sort of chagrin, then something more—­a consciousness of his own heaviness of intellect and grossness of figure—­the fatness of mind and body which had developed so rapidly within the last two years.

There she sat, as slim and pretty and fresh as ever; and only two years ago he had been mentally and physically active enough to find vigorous amusement in her company.  Malcourt’s stinging words concerning his bodily unloveliness and self-centred inertia came into his mind; and a slow blush deepened the colour in his heavy face.