But the gate was difficult, and she fumbled at, it. Again and again, she brought up her horse, only to fail. And the cob began to get nervous and jump about—to rear a little. Whenever she stooped towards the gate, it would swerve violently, and each unsuccessful attempt made it more restive. She began to get nervous herself. “How abominable! Must I go back? Suppose I get off? But if I do, can I get on again?” She looked round her for a log or a stone. Who was that approaching? For suddenly she saw a horse and rider coming from the Hilkley direction towards the gate. A moment—then through the dusk she recognised the rider; and agitation—suffocating, overwhelming—laid hold upon her. A sharp movement on the part of the horseman checked his horse. Falloden pulled up in amazement on the further side of the gate. “You?—Lady Constance!” She controlled herself, with a great effort. “How do you do? My horse shies at the gate. He’s so tiresome—I was just thinking of getting off. It will be most kind if you will let me through.” She drew aside, quieting and patting the cob, while he opened the gate. Then she passed through and paused, looking back. “Thank you very much. Are there any more gates?” “Two more I am afraid,” he said formally, as he turned and joined her. “Will you allow me to open them for you?” “It would be very good of you,” she faltered, not knowing how to refuse, or what to say. They walked their horses side by side, through the gathering darkness. An embarrassed and thrilling silence reigned between them, till at last he said: “You are staying at Scarfedale—with your aunts?” “Yes.” “I heard you were there. They are only five miles from us.” She said nothing. But she seemed to realise, through every nerve, the suppressed excitement of the man beside her. Another couple of minutes passed. Then he said abruptly: “I should like to know that you read my last letter to you—only that! I of course don’t ask for—for any comments upon it.” “Yes, I received it. I read it.” He waited a little, but she said no more. He sharply realised his disappointment, and its inconsequence. The horses slowly descended the long hill. Falloden opened another gate, with the hurried remark that there was yet one more. Meanwhile he saw Connie’s slender body, her beautiful loosened hair and black riding-hat outlined against the still glowing sky behind. Her face, turned towards the advancing dusk, he could hardly see. But the small hand in its riding-glove, so close to him, haunted his senses. One movement, and he could have crushed it in his. Far away the last gate came into sight. His bitterness and pain broke out. “I can’t imagine why you should feel any interest in my affairs,” he said, in his stiffest manner, “but you kindly allowed me to talk to you sometimes about my people. You know, I presume, what everybody knows, that we shall soon be leaving Flood, and selling the estates.”