throat pulsed; her eyes opened. Garrison kissed her again and again;
gripping her as a drowning man grips at a passing straw.

With a great heave and a passionate cry she flung him from her. She rose
unsteadily to her feet. He stood, shame engulfing him. Then she caught
her breath hard.

"Oh!" she said softly, "it's--it's you!" She laughed tremulously. "I--I
thought it was Mr. Waterbury."

Relief, longing was in the voice. She made a pleading motion with her
arms--a child longing for its mother's neck. He did not see, heed. He
was nervously running his hand through his hair, face flaming. Silence.

"Mr. Waterbury was thrown. I took his mount," he blurted out, at length.
"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head without replying; biting her lips. She was devouring
him with her eyes; eyes dark with passion. The memory of that moment
in his arms was seething within her. Why--why had she not known! They
looked at each other; eye to eye; soul to soul. Neither spoke.

She shivered, though the night was warm.

"Why did you call me Miss Desha?" she asked, at length.

"Because," he said feebly--his nature was true to his Southern name. He
was fighting self like the girl--"I'm going away," he added. It had to
come with a rush or not at all. And it must come. He heaved his chest
as a swimmer seeks to breast the waves. "I'm not worthy of you. I'm a--a