And still she said nothing, while he backed the car on to the grass beside the road, and turned it the way they had come. A jumble of strange thoughts were in her mind; a jumble out of which there stuck one dominant thing—the brown tanned face of the man beside her. And when he stopped the car by his own farm and left her without a word of apology, she sat quite motionless staring at the white streak of road in front. At last she heard his footsteps coming back along the drive, and suddenly a warm wriggling bundle was placed in her lap—a bundle which slobbered joyfully and then fell on the floor with an indignant yelp. “The puppy,” he said quietly. “Please take him.” And very softly under his breath he added: “The best to the best.” But she heard him, and even as she stooped to lift the puppy on to her knees, her heart began to beat madly. She knew: at last, she knew. “I’ll take you back to the dance,” he was saying, “and afterwards I’ll deposit that young rascal at Mrs. Laverton’s house.” And then for the first time she spoke. “Please go to Ada’s house first. Afterwards we’ll see about the dance.” He bowed and swung the car left-handed through the lodge gates. “Will you wait for me?” she said, as he pulled up at the front door. “As long as you like,” he answered courteously. “Because I may be some time,” she continued a little unevenly. “And don’t wait for me here: wait for me where the drive runs through that little copse, half-way down to the lodge.” The next instant she had disappeared into the house, with the puppy in her arms. Why by the little copse? wondered the man as he slowly drove the car down the drive. The butler had seen them already, so what did it matter? He pulled up the car in the shadow of a big oak tree, and lit a cigarette. Then, with his arms resting on the steering wheel, he sat staring in front of him. He had done a mad thing, and she’d taken it wonderfully well. He always had done mad things all his life; he was made that way. But this was the maddest he had ever done. With a grim smile he pictured her infuriated partners, waiting in serried rows by the door, cursing him by all their gods. And then the smile faded, and he sighed, while his knuckles gleamed white on the wheel. If only she wasn’t so gloriously pretty; if only she wasn’t so utterly alive and wonderful. Well—it was the penalty of playing with fire; and it had been worth it. Yes; it had been worth it—even if the wound never quite healed. “_A fool there was, and he made his prayer. . . ._” He pitched his cigarette away, and suddenly he stiffened and sat motionless, while something seemed to rise in his throat and choke him, and the blood hammered hotly at his temples. A girl in white was standing not five feet from him on the fringe of the little wood: a girl holding a puppy in her arms. And then he heard her speaking. “It’s not the same frock—but it’s the nearest I can do.”