"Don't you think it is tiresome to always mean what you say? I hate to
tell the truth. Anybody can do that."

"I thought," said Jim, "that you believed in sincerity."

"Oh, of course I do," she exclaimed impatiently, and again Jim was silent.

The next day he took her for a drive and it was then that the end came.
They had been having a glorious time, for the rapid motion and the bright
sunshine had driven away her mood of the night before and she was
perfectly happy; Jim was happy in her happiness. The half-broken colts
were fairly steady and he let her drive them and turned in his seat so
that he could watch her. As he looked at her there, her head erect, her
elbows squared, her bright eyes looking straight out ahead, Jim fell
deeper than ever in love with her. The colts felt a new and unrestraining
hand on the reins, and the pace increased rapidly. Jim noted it.

"You'd better pull up a little," he said. "They'll be getting away from
you."

"I love to go this way," she replied, and over the reins she told the
colts the same thing, in a language they understood. Suddenly one of them
broke, and in a second both were running.

"Pull 'em in," said Jim, sharply. "Here--give me the reins."

"I can hold them," she protested wilfully.

Then, without hesitation and with perfectly unconscious brutality, Jim
tore the reins out of her hands, and addressed himself to the task of