was
deriving a pleasure from these rides of Sylvia's. How? Why, he must be
riding with her. They must be meeting by secret appointment.

Harboro shook his head fiercely, like a bull that is being tortured and
bewildered by the matadors. No, no! That wasn't the way the matter was to
be explained. That could indicate only one thing--a thing that was
impossible.

He began at the beginning again. The whole thing had been an error. Sylvia
had been rendered no services at all. Runyon had engaged a horse for his
own use, and the bill had simply been sent to the wrong place. That was
the rational explanation. It was a clear and sufficient explanation.

Harboro held his head high, as if his problem had been solved. He held
himself erect, as if a burden had been removed. He had been almost at the
point of making a fool of himself, he reflected. Reason asserted itself
victoriously. But something which speaks in a softer, more insistent voice
than reason kept whispering to him: "Runyon and Sylvia! Runyon and
Sylvia!"

He faced her almost gayly at supper. He had resolved to play the role of a
happy man with whom all is well. But old Antonia looked at him darkly. Her
old woman's sense told her that he was acting a part, and that he was
overacting it. From the depths of the kitchen she regarded him as he sat
at the table. She lifted her eyes like one who hears a signal-cry when he
said casually:

"Have you gone riding any more since that other time, Sylvia?"

Sylvia hesitated. "'That other time'" she repeated vaguely.... "Oh, yes,
once since then--once or twice. Why?"

"I believe you haven't mentioned going."

"Haven't I? It doesn't seem a very important thing. I suppose I've thought
you wouldn't be interested. I don't believe you and I look at a
horseback-ride alike. I think perhaps you regard it as quite an event."

He pondered that deliberately. "You're right," he said. "And ... about
paying for the horse. I'm afraid your allowance isn't liberal enough to
cover such things. I must increase it next month. Have you been paying out
of your own pocket?"

"Yes--yes, of course. It amounts to very little."

His sombre glance travelled across the table to her. She was looking at
her plate. She had the appearance of a child encountering a small obstacle
in the way of a coveted pleasure. There was neither guilt nor alarm in her
bearing, but only an irksome discomfort.

But old Antonia withdrew farther within the kitchen. She t