“I’d rather you wouldn’t say such things,” she said simply.  “They hurt me.”

“But not when they’re true,” he persisted.

There was no answer, and they drove on again in silence; the tap of the thoroughbreds’ feet on the asphalt sounding regular as the rattle of a snare-drum, the rows of houses at either side running past like the shifting scenes of a panorama.  They passed numbers of other carriages, and to the occupants of several Sidwell lifted his hat.  Each as he did so glanced at his companion curiously.  The man was far too well known to have his actions pass without gossip.  At last they reached a semblance of the open country, and a few minutes later Sidwell pointed out the row of lights on the broad veranda of the big one-story club-house.  The affair had begun in the afternoon with a golf tournament, and when the two drove up and Sidwell turned over his trotters to a man in waiting, the entertainment was in full blast, although the hour was still early.

The building itself, ordinarily ample for the organization’s rather exclusive membership, was fairly crowded on this occasion.  The club-house had been given up to the orchestra and dancers, and refreshments were being served on the lawn and under the adjoining trees.  Even the veranda had been cleared of chairs.

As Sidwell and his companion approached the place, he said in an undertone, “Let’s not get in the crush yet; if we do, we won’t escape all the evening.”  His dark eyes looked into his companion’s face meaningly.  “I have something I wish especially to say to you.”

Florence did not meet his eyes, but she well knew the message therein.  She nodded assent to the request.

Making a detour, they emerged into the park, and strolled back to a place where, seeing, they themselves could not be seen.  Sidwell found a bench, and they sat down side by side.  The girl offered no suggestion, no protest.  Since that row of lights had appeared in the distance she had become passive.  She knew beforehand all that was to take place; something that she had decided to accede to, the details of which were unimportant.  An apathy which she did not attempt to explain held her.  The music heard so near, the glimpses of shifting, faultlessly dressed figures, the loveliness of a perfect night—­things that ordinarily would have been intensely exhilarating—­now passed by her unnoticed.  Her senses were temporarily in lethargy.  If she had a conscious wish, it was that the inevitable would come, and be over with.

From without this land of unreality she was suddenly conscious of a voice speaking to her.  “Florence,” it said, “Florence Baker, you know before I say a word the thing I wish to tell you, the question I wish to ask.  You know, because more than once I’ve tried to speak, and at the last moment you have prevented.  But you can’t stop me to-night.  We have run on understanding each other long enough; too long.  I have never lied to you