There was no help for it. He lied boldly. "Yes," he said. "What did she say?" "I am expecting her reply any hour." "And Mac? Did you give him my love?" "I haven't written to Mac since I came to Newport; but I shall not omit a word of your message when I see him, or write, whichever comes first.... Have you any idea what time it is?" "Time these lazy gees were stirring themselves. Come, Hector!" She shook the reins on her horse's neck, and the big hunter jumped off in a fast canter. Power raced alongside, and the two struck into a byroad leading to Bellevue Avenue. Power was busying his brain to formulate some colorless phrase which would supply a natural-sounding comment by his mother on the fact that he had encountered an old friend in Newport. He knew well that he dared not tell her; for the tidings would distress her immeasurably. But he need not have troubled himself. Nancy never mentioned the matter again, for the very convincing reason that she did not believe him. Her allusion to Mrs. Power was one last turn of the screw. She was as certain that he could no more explain her presence to his mother than she could explain his to her father. Twice had she written his name in letters to Denver, and twice had she destroyed the letter. On the night she met Power she had dashed off a hot and impetuous note asking Willard why Derry's letters had been withheld; but, in calmer mood, this dangerous query was given to the flames. On a second occasion, about a week later, Power's name crept inadvertently into a description of some incident at the Casino, and the warm blood rushed to her face and neck when she found how near she was to committing the letter to the post without having read it. All that day Power was puzzled by a new serenity shining in Nancy's eyes. He could not guess that, more candidly analytical than he, she had looked fearlessly into the future and had discounted its agonies. She felt now that she had been tricked into a loveless marriage; that Marten had purchased her with exactly the same cold calculation of values which he would have applied to a business undertaking. Willard had proved as potter's clay in his hands, and every turn and twist of the project was clear to her vision as though her husband, yielding to sardonic impulse, had set forth the unsavory story in black and white. But it was one thing to recognize how she had been duped, and another to strike out boldly for instant freedom. And in that respect the woman was braver than the man. Power was content to live in the golden present, to stifle the longings and plaints of silent hours; while the woman who loved him thought only of the end she now held firmly in view and recked little of the means whereby that end might be achieved.