"The pity is that we haven't often a chance of saying it to any one worth while. But I'll express the moral in a prettier way--sometimes disinterested steadfastness and real devotion count with us. Unfortunately, they're scarce." There was a challenge in her glance, but the man, not knowing what was expected of him, made no answer. At first he had been almost repelled by the girl, but he was becoming mildly interested in her. She could, he thought, be daring to the verge of coarseness, and he did not admire her pessimism, which was probably a pose; but there was a vein of elfish mischief in her that appealed to him. Sitting among the heather, small, lithe, and felinely graceful, watching him with a provocative smile in her rather narrow eyes, she compelled his attention. "Well," she laughed, "you're not much of a courtier. But doesn't that story bring you back into touch with elemental things--treacherous mosses, dark nights, flooded rivers, passion, peril, dauntlessness? Now we're wrapped about with empty futilities." He understood part of what was in her mind and sympathized with it. He had lived close to nature in stern grapple with her unbridled forces. From women he demanded no more than beauty or gentleness; but a man, he thought, should for a time, at least, be forced to learn the stress and joy of the tense struggle with cold and hunger, heat and thirst, on long marches or in some dogged attack on rock and flood. He had only contempt for the well-fed idlers who lounged through life, not always, as he suspected, even gracefully. These, however, were ideas he had no intention of expressing. "There are still people who have to face realities in the newer lands; and I dare say you have some in this country, on your railroads and in your mines, for example," he said. "But hadn't we better be getting on?" They left the brink of the hollow and plodded through the heather toward where a row of butts stood beneath a lofty ridge of the moor. A man appeared from behind one as they approached and glanced at them with unconcealed disapproval. "Couldn't you have got here earlier, Bella?" he asked. "In another few minutes you'd have spoiled the drive--the birds can't be far off the dip of the ridge. Hardly fair to the keepers or the rest of us to take these risks, is it?" "When I do wrong, I never confess it, Clarence," the girl replied. "You ought to know that by now." Lisle heard the name and became suddenly intent--this was Clarence Gladwyne! There was no doubt that he was a handsome man. He was tall and held himself finely; he had a light, springy figure, with dark eyes and hair. Besides, there was a certain stamp of refinement or fastidiousness upon him which was only slightly spoiled by the veiled hint of languid insolence in his expression. "I heard a shot," he resumed. "I've no doubt you did," the girl agreed. "An old cock grouse got up in front of us--it was irresistibly tempting."