The smile at her mouth twitched her lips faintly, and still Crittenden
did not see; he was too serious, and he kept silent.

The clock-like stroke of the horse's high-lifted feet came sharply out
on the hard road. The cushioned springs under them creaked softly now
and then, and the hum of the slender, glittering spokes was noiseless
and drowsy.

"You haven't changed much," said Judith, "except for the better."

"You haven't changed at all. You couldn't--for better or worse."

Judith smiled dreamily and her eyes were looking backward--very far
backward. Suddenly they were shot with mischief.

"Why, you really don't seem to--" she hesitated--"to like me any more."

"I really don't--" Crittenden, too, hesitated--"don't like you any
more--not as I did."

"You wrote me that."

"Yes."

The girl gave a low laugh. How often he had played this harmless little
part. But there was a cool self-possession about him that she had never
seen before. She had come home, prepared to be very nice to him, and she
was finding it easy.

"And you never answered," said Crittenden.