It was a mad joy that Stephen felt.

“You did not wish me to come?” he demanded.

“Oh, why do you ask that?” she cried.  “You know I would not have been here had I thought you were coming.  Anne promised me that you would not come.”

What would she not have given for those words back again

Stephen took astride toward her, and to the girl that stride betokened a thousand things that went to the man’s character.  Within its compass the comparison in her mind was all complete.  He was master of himself when he spoke.

“You dislike me, Miss Carvel,” he said steadily.  “I do not blame you.  Nor do I flatter myself that it is only because you believe one thing, and I another.  But I assure you that it is my misfortune rather than my fault that I have not pleased you,—­that I have met you only to anger you.”

He paused, for she did not seem to hear him.  She was gazing at the distant lights moving on the river.  Had he come one step farther?—­but he did not.  Presently she knew that he was speaking again, in the same measured tone.

“Had Miss Brinsmade told me that my presence here would cause you annoyance, I should have stayed away.  I hope that you will think nothing of the—­the mistake at the gate.  You may be sure that I shall not mention it.  Good night, Miss Carvel.”

He lifted his hat, mounted his horse, and was gone.  She had not even known that he could ride—­that was strangely the first thought.  The second discovered herself intent upon the rhythm of his canter as it died southward upon the road.  There was shame in this, mingled with a thankfulness that he would not meet Clarence.  She hurried a few steps toward the house, and stopped again.  What should she say to Clarence now?  What could she say to him?

But Clarence was not in her head.  Ringing there was her talk with Stephen Brice, as though it were still rapidly going on.  His questions and her replies—­over and over again.  Each trivial incident of an encounter real and yet unreal!  His transformation in the uniform, which had seemed so natural.  Though she strove to make it so, nothing of all this was unbearable now, nor the remembrance of the firm torch of his arm about her nor yet again his calling her by her name.

Absently she took her way again up the drive, now pausing, now going on, forgetful.  First it was alarm she felt when her cousin leaped down at her side,—­then dread.

“I thought I should never get back,” he cried breathlessly, as he threw his reins to Sambo.  “I ought not to have asked you to wait outside.  Did it seem long, Jinny?”

She answered something, There was a seat near by under the trees.  To lead her to it he seized her hand, but it was limp and cold, and a sudden fear came into his voice.

“Jinny!”

“Yes.”

She resisted, and he dropped her fingers.  She remembered long how he stood in the scattered light from the bright windows, a tall, black figure of dismay.  She felt the yearning in his eyes.  But her own response, warm half an hour since, was lifeless.