“I’m afraid I’ve lost track of the good country roads.”

“Follow me, then.”

They walked their horses to the city limits.  You never saw either of them galloping over brick or asphalt, which quickly ruins the surest-footed horse; neither did they permit any fox-trotting, which, while it shows off a spirited horse, decreases his value in the ring.  All of which is to say, these two, like their mounts, were thoroughbreds.

“Where is Jove?” she asked presently.

“The rogue is missing.  I dare say he is gallivanting around some neighbor’s back yard.  I haven’t laid eyes on him this morning.  I believe he realizes that he will see me frequently hereafter, and has not bothered his head to look me up.”

“Frequently?” She turned her head.

“Yes.  I am coming home to live.  Of course, this is my place of residence; my voter’s bed, as the politicians say, is here in Herculaneum.  But I mean to live here now in deed as well as in thought.”

“I am sure we shall be delighted to have you with us.”  This was said gravely.  A thought, which she would have repelled gladly, sprang into being.  “I know John will be glad.  He’s always talking about you and your exploits at college.”

“Our exploits,” he corrected, laughing.  “Shall we give them a little exercise now?” he asked, with a gesture toward the long brown road.

She nodded, and they started off at a sharp trot, and presently broke into a canter.  So he was coming home to live?  She felt a hot wave of sudden anger sweep over her, and her hands tightened on the reins.  It was true, then?  She loved her brother.  What right had this man at her side to threaten her brother’s happiness?  Had Katherine Challoner signified her desire not to leave New York, would Warrington have decided to return to Herculaneum?  Her hands relaxed.  What a silly little fool she was!  She, who despised and contemned gossip, was giving it ready ear.  Had she ever found gossip other than an errant, cowardly liar?  Gossip, gossip!  Ah, if gossip, when she had made her round, would not leave suspicion behind her; suspicion, hydra-headed!  What signified it that Warrington intended to come home to live?  What signified it that her brother’s wife would live across the way?  She was ashamed of her evil thought; presently she would be no better than Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, or any of those women who get together to tear somebody apart.  As if Warrington could compare with her big, handsome, manly brother!  It was all impossible.  She would punish herself for even entertaining such a thought as had been hers but a moment gone.

She stole a glance at Warrington.  He was riding easily, his feet light in the stirrups, his head thrown back, his eyes half closed, and was breathing deeply of the cool air, which was heavy with the smell of sweet clover and dew-wet earth.  It was a good, clean, honest face.  Indeed, it was all impossible.  Dissipation writes plainly upon the human countenance, and it had left no visible sign on Warrington’s face.  It may be that dissipation sometimes whimsically neglects to write at all.