"I'll tell you," she said, hoping that this, somehow, might lead her into the truth, for herself, if not for him, but it did not. "You are a little nervous, you will get used to it--you will even grow to like it. Be patient. You will learn soon enough that there is nothing in the world so agreeable as climbing, changing." "Well," he said trying to read her, "And then?" "That's all, you will regret the stables in the end--that's all." Her nostrils quivered. A light came into her eyes, a desire to defy, to be defied. And then on this last night he had done something terrible, he had made a blunder. There had been a party. The guests, a lot of them, were mostly drunk, or touched with drink. And he too had too much. He remembered having thrown his arms about a tall woman, gowned in black with loose shoulder straps, dragging her through a dance. He had even sung a bit of a song, madly, wildly, horribly. And suddenly he had been brought up sharp by the fact that no one thought his behavior strange, that no one thought him presumptuous. Freda's mother had not even moved or dropped the kitten from her lap where it sat, its loud resolute purr shaking the satin of her gown. And he felt that Freda had got him where she wanted him, between two rungs. Going directly up to her he said: "You are ridiculous!" and twirled his moustache, spitting into the garden. And he knew nothing about what happened until he found himself in the shrubbery crawling toward the corral, through the dusk and the dampness of the leaves, carrying his cane, making sure of his hat, looking up at the stars. And now he knew why he had come. He was with his horses again. His eyes, pressed against the bars, stared in. The black stallion in the lead had been his special pet, a rough animal, but kindly, knowing. And here they were once more, tearing up the grass, galloping about in the night like a ball-room full of real people, people who wanted to do things, who did what they wanted to do. He began to crawl through the bars, slowly, deftly, and when half way through he paused, thinking. Presently he went on again, and drawing himself into the corral, his hat and cane thrown in before him, he lay there mouth to the grass. They were still running, but less madly, one of them had gone up the Willow Road leading into a farther pasture, in a flare of dust, through which it looked immense and faint. On the top of the hill three or four of the horses were standing, testing the weather. He would mount one, he would ride away, he would escape. And his horses, the things he knew, would be his escape. Bareback, he thought, would be like the days when he had taken what he could from the rush of the streets, joy, exhilaration, life, and he was not afraid. He wanted to stand up, to cry aloud. And he saw ten or twelve of them rounding the curve, and he did stand up.