"Yes, I know _myself_," he said; "I think I know _her_. I'll hesitate no longer; some fool may 'rush in.' To-morrow shall settle it. The tough old Scotchman was right: 'He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch To gain or lose it all!'" VII. That same afternoon, at two o'clock, Mr. Vanderbilt Morris's stylish dog-cart, drawn by his high-spirited bays, drew up at Miss Rose Wood's domicile. Holding the reins sat Mr. Andrew Browne, beaming as though _Chambertin_ had never been pressed from the grape; seemingly as fresh as though headache had never slipped with the rest out of Pandora's box. But it may have been only seemingly; for, faultlessly attired from scarf-pin to glove tips, Andy was still a trifle more uneasy than the dancing of his restless team might warrant in so noted a whip as he. A queer expression swept over his handsome face from time to time; and, as he came to a halt, he glanced furtively over his shoulder, as though fearing something in pursuit. "Ask Miss Rose if she will drive with me," he said hurriedly to the servant. "Say I can't get down to come in; the horses are too fresh." Then the off-horse danced a polka in space, responsive to deft tickling with the whip. Miss Wood did not stand upon ceremony, nor upon the order of her going, but went at once to get her wraps. "Better late than never," she said to herself, as she dived into a drawer and upset her mouchoir case in search for a particular handkerchief. "I really couldn't comprehend his absence and silence all day--but, poor boy! he's _so_ young!" And then Miss Rose, as she tied a becoming cardinal bow under her chin, hummed two bars of "The Wedding March" through the pins in her mouth. Two minutes later saw her seated on the high box beside her future lord _in posse_; the bays plunging like mad and Andy swinging to the reins as if for life. For, before she could speak one word--and for no reason to her apparent--he had let the limber lash drop stingingly across their backs. Very keen was the winter wind that swept by her tingling ears; and Miss Wood raised her seal-skin muff and hid her modest blushes from it. For that gentle virgin had ever a familiar demon at her elbow. His name was Experience; and now he whispered to her: "A red nose never reflects sentiment!" "And _he_ is so particular how one looks," Miss Rose whispered back to the familiar; and her tip-tilted feature sought deeper protection in the furs. At length, when well off the paved streets, the mad rush of the brutes cooled down to a swinging trot--ten miles an hour; Browne's tense arms relaxed a trifle; and he drew a long, deep breath--whether of relief, or anxiety, no listener could have guessed. But he kept his eyes still rooted to that off-horse's right ear as though destiny herself sat upon its tip.