still
glowing sky behind. Her face, turned towards the advancing dusk, he
could hardly see. But the small hand in its riding-glove, so close to
him, haunted his senses. One movement, and he could have crushed it
in his.

Far away the last gate came into sight. His bitterness and pain broke
out.

"I can't imagine why you should feel any interest in my affairs," he
said, in his stiffest manner, "but you kindly allowed me to talk to you
sometimes about my people. You know, I presume, what everybody knows,
that we shall soon be leaving Flood, and selling the estates."

"I know." The girl's voice was low and soft. "I am awfully, awfully
sorry!"

"Thank you. It doesn't of course matter for me. I can make my own life.
But for my father--it is hard. I should like you to know"--he spoke with
growing agitation--"that when we met--at Cannes--and at Oxford--I had no
knowledge--no idea--of what was happening."

She raised her head suddenly, impetuously.

"I don't know why you say that!"

He saw instantly that his wounded pride had betrayed him into a
blunder--that without meaning it, he had seemed to suggest that she
would have treated him differently, if she had known he was not a
rich man.

"It was a stupid thing to say. Please consider it unsaid."

The silence deepened, till she broke it again--

"I see Mr. Radowitz sometimes. Won't you like to know that he is
composing a symphony for his degree? He is always working at it. It
makes him happy--at least--contented."

"Yes, I am glad. But nothing can ever make up to him. I know that."

"No--nothing," she admitted sadly.

"Or to me!"

Constance started. They had reached the last gate.

Falloden threw himself off his horse to open it and as she rode through,
she looked down into his face. Its proud regularity of feature, its rich
colour, its brilliance, seemed to her all blurred and clouded. A
flashing insight showed her the valley of distress and humiliation
through which this man had been passing. His bitter look, at once of
challenge and renunciation, set her trembling; she felt herself all
weakness; and suddenly the woman in her--dumbly, unguessed--held out
its arms.

But he knew nothing of it. Rather her attitude seemed to him one of
embarrassment--even of _hauteur_. It was suddenly intolerable to him to
seem to be asking for her pity. He raised his hat, coldly gave her a
few directions as to her road home, and closed the gate behind her. She
bowed and in