“You’re not of her blood, nor of her way of life, nor anything—­it’s taking chances—­and—­” his hand came down on the young man’s knee, “I’m fond of her, you see.”

“If you were in my place,” said Harz, “would you give her up?”

Mr. Treffry groaned.  “Lord knows!”

“Men have made themselves before now.  For those who don’t believe in failure, there’s no such thing.  Suppose she does suffer a little?  Will it do her any harm?  Fair weather love is no good.”

Mr. Treffry sighed.

“Brave words, sir!  You’ll pardon me if I’m too old to understand ’em when they’re used about my niece.”

He pulled the horses up, and peered into the darkness.  “We’re going through this bit quietly; if they lose track of us here so much the better.  Dominique! put out the lamps.  Soho, my beauties!” The horses paced forward at a walk the muffled beat of their hoofs in the dust hardly broke the hush.  Mr. Treffry pointed to the left:  “It’ll be another thirty-five miles to the frontier.”

They passed the whitewashed houses, and village church with its sentinel cypress-trees.  A frog was croaking in a runlet; there was a faint spicy scent of lemons.  But nothing stirred.

It was wood now on either side, the high pines, breathing their fragrance out into the darkness, and, like ghosts amongst them, the silver stems of birch-trees.

Mr. Treffry said gruffly:  “You won’t give her up?  Her happiness means a lot to me.”

“To you!” said Harz:  “to him!  And I am nothing!  Do you think I don’t care for her happiness?  Is it a crime for me to love her?”

“Almost, Mr. Harz—­considering....”

“Considering that I’ve no money!  Always money!”

To this sneer Mr. Treffry made no answer, clucking to his horses.

“My niece was born and bred a lady,” he said at last.  “I ask you plainly What position have you got to give her?”

“If she marries me,” said Harz, “she comes into my world.  You think that I’m a common....”

Mr. Treffry shook his head:  “Answer my question, young man.”

But the painter did not answer it, and silence fell.

A light breeze had sprung up; the whispering in the trees, the rolling of the wheels in this night progress, the pine-drugged air, sent Harz to sleep.  When he woke it was to the same tune, varied by Mr. Treffry’s uneasy snoring; the reins were hanging loose, and, peering out, he saw Dominique shuffling along at the horses’ heads.  He joined him, and, one on each side, they plodded up and up.  A haze had begun to bathe the trees, the stars burnt dim, the air was colder.  Mr. Treffry woke coughing.  It was like some long nightmare, this interminable experience of muffled sounds and shapes, of perpetual motion, conceived, and carried out in darkness.  But suddenly the day broke.  Heralded by the snuffle of the horses, light began glimmering over