"Who have you got on the string now!" he broke out--"you little adventuress! What damned fool is damned fool enough to marry you when anybody could get you for less if they care to spend the time on you----" Suddenly his arm shot out and he wrenched her bridle, dragging her horse around and holding him there. "Are you mad?" she whispered, white to the lips. "Take your hand off my bridle!" "For another word," he said between clinched teeth, "I'd ride you down and spoil that face of yours! Hold your tongue and listen to me. I've stood all I'm going to from you. I've done all the cringing and boot-licking that is going to be done. You're the sort that needs curb and spurs, and you'll get them if you cut up with me. Is that plain?" She had carried no crop that morning or she would have used it; her bridle was useless; spurring might have dragged them both down under the horses' feet. "For the last time," he said, "you listen to me. I love you. I want you. You haven't a cent; you could fill out any check you chose to draw over my signature. Now if you are not crazy, or a hopeless fool, behave yourself." A great sob choked her; she forced it back and sat, waiting, eyes almost closed. "Strelsa, answer me!" There was no reply. "Answer me, for God's sake!" She opened her eyes. "Will you marry me?" "No." His eyes seemed starting from his head and the deep blood rushed to his face and neck, and he flung her bridle into her face with an inarticulate sound. Then, slowly, side by side they advanced along the road together. A groom met them at Witch-Hollow; Strelsa slipped from her saddle without aid and, leisurely, erect, smiling, walked up to the veranda where Molly stood reading the morning paper. "Hello dear," she said. "Am I very late for luncheon?" "It's over. Will you have a tray out here?" "May I?" "Don't you want to change, first?" "Yes, thanks." Molly glanced up from the paper: "Isn't Langly stopping for luncheon with you?" "No." Molly looked at her curiously: "Did you enjoy your gallop?" "We didn't gallop much." "Spooned?" Strelsa shuddered slightly. The elder woman dropped her paper and gazed at her. "You don't mean to say it's all off, Strelsa!" "Entirely. Please don't let's speak of it again--or of him--if you don't mind----" "I don't!--you darling!--you poor darling! What has that creature done to _you_?" "Don't speak of him, please." "No, I won't. Oh, I'm so glad, Strelsa!--I can't tell you how happy, how immensely relieved--and that cat of an aunt of his here to make mischief!--and poor Mary Ledwith----" [Illustration: "'Is it to be Sir Charles after all, darling?' she asked caressingly."] "Molly, I--I simply can't talk about it--any of it----" She turned abruptly, entered the house, and ran lightly up the stairs. Molly waited for her, grimly content with the elimination of Langly Sprowl and already planning separate campaigns in behalf of Sir Charles and Quarren.