He straightened himself, wiped the sweat from his brow, and was immediately aware of certain other sounds approaching from the wood itself. Horses—at a walk. No doubt the same gentleman and lady who had passed him an hour earlier, going in a contrary direction. He watched them as they passed him again, repeating his reflection that they were a “fine-lookin’ couple”—no doubt sweethearts. What else should bring a young man and a young woman riding in Lathom Woods at that time in the morning? “Never seed ’em doin’ it before, anyways.” Connie threw the old man a gracious “Good morning!”—to which he guardedly responded, looking full at her, as he stood leaning on his axe. “I wonder what the old fellow is thinking about us!” she said lightly, when they had moved forward. Then she flushed, conscious that the remark had been ill-advised. Falloden, who was sitting erect and rather sombre, his reins lying loosely on his horse’s neck, said slowly— “He is probably thinking all sorts of foolish things, which aren’t true. I wish they were.” Connie’s eyes were shining with a suppressed excitement. “He supposes at any rate we have had a good time, and in fact—we haven’t. Is that what you mean?” “If you like to put it so.” “And we haven’t had a good time, because—unfortunately—we’ve quarrelled!” “I should describe it differently. There are certain proofs and tests of friendship that any friend may ask for. But when they are all refused—” “Friendship itself is strained!” laughed Constance, looking round at her companion. She was breathing quickly. “In other words, we have been quarrelling—about Radowitz—and there seems no way of making it up.” “You have only to promise me the very little thing I asked,” said Falloden stiffly. “That I shouldn’t dance with him to-night, or again this week? You call that a little thing?” “I should have thought it a small thing, compared—” He turned and faced her. His dark eyes were full of proud agitation—of things unspoken. But she met them undaunted. “Compared to—friendship?” He was silent, but his eyes held her. “Well then”—said Constance—“let me repeat that—in my opinion, friendship which asks unreasonable things—is not friendship—but tyranny!” She drew herself up passionately, and gave a smart touch with her whip to the mare’s flank, who bounded forward, and had to be checked by Falloden’s hand on her bridle. “Don’t get run away with, while you are denouncing me!” he said, smiling, as they pulled up. “I really didn’t want any help!” said Constance, panting. “I could have stopped her quite easily.” “I doubt it. She is really not the lamb you think her!” “Nor is her mistress: I return the remark.” “Which has no point. Because only a mad-man—” “Could have dreamed of comparing me—to anything soft and docile?” laughed Constance. There was another silence. Before them at the end of a long green vista the gate opening on the main road could be seen.