moment when he
turned and saw her standing there by the fallen tree in the forest,
with her loose hair scrambling over her temples--scrambling to see the
stars in her eyes. The day passed, and then another; and then the
weeks and months, and presently the years, very slowly. But always the
fool saw her standing there in the sunshine, with the dear, faint smile
on her lips, and the bright memory of her eyes lighted his path when
the way was dark, and he might have stumbled, always, always."

I stopped. She was looking away out of the latticed window up at the
clear blue sky--looking with the look that is blind and seeth nothing.
I came round to the back of her chair and put my hands on her shoulders.

"We never finished our scene," I said gently.

"No?"

"No. You pushed me away."

"Did I?"

A pause. Then:

"May I finish it now?" I said.

"I expect," she said slowly, "I expect you know that bit all right."

"I shall cut it on the night of the performance."

She leaned right back in her chair and looked steadily up into my eyes.
I bent over her.

"You'll do nothing of the sort," she said firmly. "She may be--"

"A goddess. But she won't be you."

"No?" she smiled.

"Never, Alice."

"Promise me you'll not cut it on the night."

I groaned.

"But--" I faltered.

"Promise."

"Oh, all right! But I shall hate it, Alice, hate--"

"A present for a good Hare," she said softly, and raised her lips to
mine.

On examination Pomfret proved to be practically unhurt, and I was able
to get some petrol in the village; but naturally I didn't dare to drive
him without seeing to the brakes. It was impossible for my companion
to wait while I rectified the trouble, but we managed to raise what had
once been a dog-cart, and in that she left for Tendon Harrow. She
left, I say, for she would not let me come with her. She was so firm.
I implored her, but it was no good. She simply would not be entreated,
and I had to content myself with putting her carefully in and watching
her drive away in the care of a blushing half-boots, half-ostler, who
could not have been more than eighteen.

I got home about six.

"Where on earth have you been?" said Daphne, as I entered the
smoking-room.

"Ask Pomfret," said I. "He's in disgrace."

"You haven't hurt him?"

"He nearly killed me."

"What happened"

"Lost his temper just because the petrol ran out. Believe me, a horrid
exhibition. Absolutely let himse