"John? Where in the world did you come from?"--taking him by the arm and dragging him into the hall. "Good gracious!" "The truth is, Betty, I took to my heels at six o'clock, and have been riding around the country ever since." He sent her a penetrating glance. "Come in to the fire," she cried impulsively. "You are cold and wet and hungry." "Only wet," he admitted as he entered the cheerful library. He went directly to the blazing grate and spread out his red, wet, aching hands. He could hear her bustling about; it was a pleasant sound. A chair rolled up to the fender; the rattle of a tea-table followed. It was all very fine. "I ought to be ashamed to enter a house in these reeking clothes," he said; "but the temptation was too great." "You are always welcome, John,"--softly. His keen ear caught the melancholy sympathy in her tone. He shrugged. He had lost the fight. Had he won, she would already have poured forth her congratulations. "Sit down," she commanded, "while I get the tea. Or would you prefer brandy?" "The tea, by all means. I do not need brandy to bolster up my courage." He sat down. She left the room and returned shortly with biscuit and tea. She filled a cup, put in two lumps of sugar, and passed the cup to him. "You've a good memory," he said, smiling at her. "It's nice to have one's likes remembered, even in a cup of tea. I look as if I had been to war, don't I?" She buttered a biscuit. He ate it, not because he was hungry, but because her fingers had touched it. It was a phantom kiss. He put the cup down. "Now, which is it; have I been licked, or have I won?" "What!" she cried; "do you mean to tell me you do not know?" She gazed at him bewilderedly. "I have been four hours in the saddle. I know nothing, save that which instinct and the sweet melancholy of your voice tell me. Betty, I've been licked, haven't I, and old Dick has gone and done it, eh?" The girl choked for a moment; there was a sob in her throat. "Yes, John." Carrington reached over and tapped the hearth with his riding-crop, absent-mindedly. The girl gazed at him, her eyes shining in a mist of unshed tears.... She longed to reach out her hand and smooth the furrows from his care-worn brow, to brush the melting crystals of snow from his hair; longed to soothe the smart of defeat which she knew was burning his heart. She knew that only strong men suffer in silence. From a half-opened window the night breathed upon them, freighted with the far-off murmur of voices. "I confess to you that I built too much on the outcome. I am ambitious; I want to be somebody, to take part in the great affairs of the world. I fought the very best I knew how. I had many dreams. Do you recollect the verses I used to write to you when we were children? There was always something of the poet in me, and it is still there, only it no longer develops on paper. I had looked toward Washington ... even toward you, Betty."