over this--he wouldn't have yielded. The man on horseback would have
taken an obstacle like that without breaking the stride of his gallop.

What underlay her quiet meaningless chat, was wonder and fear, and more
deeply still, a sort of cosmic contentment--the acquiescence of a
swimmer in the still irresistible current of a mighty river.

It was distinctly a relief to her when her mother came in and,
presently, Portia. She introduced him to them, and then dropped out of
the conversation altogether. As if it were a long way off, she heard him
retailing last night's adventure and expressing his regret that he
hadn't taken her to Frederica (that was his sister, Mrs. Whitney) to be
dried out, before he sent her home.

She was aware that Portia stole a look at her in a puzzled penetrating
sort of way every now and then, but didn't concern herself as to the
basis of her curiosity. She knew that it was getting on toward their
dinner-time, but didn't disturb herself as to the effect Inga's
premonitory rattlings out in the dining-room might have on her guest. As
a matter of fact, they had none whatever.

She smiled once widely to herself, over a thought of the half-back. The
man here in the room with her now, chatting so pleasantly with her
mother, wouldn't ask for favors--would accept nothing that wasn't
offered as eagerly as it was sought.

It wasn't until he rose to go that she aroused herself and went with him
into the hall. There, after he'd got into his overcoat and hooked his
stick over his arm, he held out his hand to her in formal leave-taking.
Only it didn't turn out that way. For the effect of that warm lithe grip