beauty.  His walk and bearing gave her pleasure.  When he turned his red-brown eyes upon her suddenly she was conscious that she liked their colour, their shape, the power of the look in them.  On his part, he—­for the twentieth time—­found himself newly moved by the dower nature had bestowed on her.  Had the world ever held before a woman creature so much to be longed for?—­abnormal wealth, New York and Fifth Avenue notwithstanding, a man could only think of folding arms round her and whispering in her lovely ear—­follies, oaths, prayers, gratitude.

And yet as they went about together there was growing in Betty Vanderpoel’s mind a certain realisation.  It grew in spite of the recognition of the change in him—­the new thing lighted in his eyes.  Whatsoever he felt—­if he felt anything—­he would never allow himself speech.  How could he?  In his place she could not speak herself.  Because he was the strong thing which drew her thoughts, he would not come to any woman only to cast at her feet a burden which, in the nature of things, she must take up.  And suddenly she comprehended that the mere obstinate Briton in him—­even apart from greater things—­had an immense attraction for her.  As she liked now the red-brown colour of his eyes and saw beauty in his rugged features, so she liked his British stubbornness and the pride which would not be beaten.

“It is the unconquerable thing, which leads them in their battles and makes them bear any horror rather than give in.  They have taken half the world with it; they are like bulldogs and lions,” she thought.  “And—­and I am glorying in it.”

“Do you know,” said Mount Dunstan, “that sometimes you suddenly fling out the most magnificent flag of colour—­as if some splendid flame of thought had sent up a blaze?”

“I hope it is not a habit,” she answered.  “When one has a splendid flare of thought one should be modest about it.”

What was there worth recording in the whole hour they spent together?  Outwardly there had only been a chance meeting and a mere passing by.  But each left something with the other and each learned something; and the record made was deep.

At last she was on her horse again, on the road outside the white gate.

“This morning has been so much to the good,” he said.  “I had thought that perhaps we might scarcely meet again this year.  I shall become absorbed in hops and you will no doubt go away.  You will make visits or go to the Riviera—­or to New York for the winter?”

“I do not know yet.  But at least I shall stay to watch the thorn trees load themselves with coral.”  To herself she was saying:  “He means to keep away.  I shall not see him.”

As she rode off Mount Dunstan stood for a few moments, not moving from his place.  At a short distance from the farmhouse gate a side lane opened upon the highway, and as she cantered in its direction a horseman turned in from it—­a man who was young and well dressed and who sat well a spirited animal.  He came out upon the road almost face to face with Miss Vanderpoel, and from where he stood Mount Dunstan could see his delighted smile as he lifted his hat in salute.  It was Lord Westholt, and what more natural than that after an exchange of greetings the two should ride together on their way!  For nearly three miles their homeward road would be the same.