"Oh, that's different. I know you, you see, and you're not a beast. You aren't really like that." "But I am. That's the real me. It is truly; the real, deep-down me, the me that's worth anything." "No," said Mary, shaking her head, "I don't believe it; you _have_ some consideration for other people." "Not in that sense; if there was anything, any big thing, I had to put through--no one should stand in my way. And it's the same with anything I want very much. I go straight for it, and it matters nothing to me who gets knocked down on the route . . . and so you'll find," Reggie added very low. They were looking each other straight in the face, Mary a little breathless and wondering: "And so you'll find," Reggie repeated a little louder, and there was a look in his eyes that caused Mary to drop hers, and she rode on. Reggie caught her up. "Are you sorry, Mary?" he asked gently. "About what?" "Well . . . about everything. The story, and my ferocious mental attitude, and all the rest of it." He laid his hand on her horse's neck, and leaned forward to look in her face. They were riding very close together, and Mary was too near the hedge to put more distance between them. "I can't be sorry you write so well," she said slowly, "it is very exciting--is the news for publication or not?" "I'd be grateful if you'd say nothing as yet--you see I've only done these two, and what's a couple of short stories? Besides, it's not really my job, only it's amusing, and one can rub it in that way, and reach a larger class than by the strictly military article--no one knows anything about it except the editor of _The Point of View_--and you--I'd rather you didn't mention it, if you don't mind." "Of course I shan't mention it, but I shall look out for 'Ubique' with much greater interest." "And still think him a beast?" "That depends on what he writes." "I'm not so much concerned about what you think of Ubique as that you should remember that I mean what I say." "You say a good many absurd things." "Yes, but this is not absurd--when I want a thing very much . . ." "Oh, you needn't say all that again. Be a silent, strong man like the heroes in Seton Merriman, they're much the best kind." "I'm not particularly silent, but I flatter myself that . . ." "It's a shame to crawl over this lovely grass--come on and have a canter," said Mary.