no haste in the task he was engaged in;
straightened slowly and mounted with leisure. Once again in the saddle,
and on their way, it is true he appeared to listen to the girl; but his
responses were vague, lacking both in vivacity and humor. It was
impossible she should not notice this want of attention; she bit her
lips once; then she laughed.

"Do you know, Mr. Steele, if I were vain I should feel hurt."

"Hurt?" he repeated.

"You haven't heard what I have been saying." Her eyes challenged his.

"Haven't I?"

"Deny it."

He did not; again she looked at him merrily.

"Of course, I can't afford to be harsh with my rescuer. Perhaps"--in the
same tone--"you really did save my life! Have you ever really saved any
one--any one else, shall I say?--you who are so strong?"

A spasm as of pain passed over his face; his look, however, was not for
her; and the girl's eyes, too, had now become suddenly set afar. Was she
thinking of another scene, some one her own words conjured to mind? Her
mood seemed to gain in seriousness; she also became very quiet; and so
almost in silence they went on to the entrance, down the street, to her
home.

"_Au revoir_, and thank you!" she said there, regaining her accustomed
lightness.

"Good-by! At least for the present," he added. "I am leaving London,"
abruptly.

"Leaving?" She regarded him in surprise. "To be gone long?"

"It is difficult to say. Perhaps."

"But--you must have decided suddenly?"

"Yes."

"While we have been riding home?" Again he answered affirmatively; the
blue eyes looked at him long. "Is it--is it serious?"

"A little."

"Men make so much of business, nowadays," she observed, "it--it always
seems serious, I suppose. We--we are moving into the country in a few
weeks. Shall I--shall we, see you before then?"

"To my regret, I am afraid not."

"And after"--in a voice matter-of-fact--"I think aunt has put you down
for July; a house party; I don't recall the exact dates. You will come?"

"Shall we say, circumstances permitting--" "Certainly," a little
stiffly, "circumstances permitting." She gave him her hand. "_Au
revoir!_ Or good-by, if you prefer it." He held the little gloved
fingers; let them drop. There was a suggestion of hopelessness in the
movement that fitted oddly his inherent vigor and self-poise; she
started to draw away; an ineffable something held her.

"Good luck in your business!" she found herself saying, half-gaily,
half-ironicall