"I understand," said Stephanie, "but I fear I'll do nothing but fret them, so to speak--at least for a time. Under the circumstances, I'm rather a weight to carry, especially when the going is apt to be both rough and heavy." "You can never tell what the going is until you ride it," said Gladys heartily. "Sometimes the field worse on the surface is the best underneath." After Gladys had gone, Stephanie grew restless. She tried to read, but she could not keep her mind on even the print; as for the story, it made no more impression on her than a passing carriage.... Presently she laid the book aside and tried to sleep.... It was futile also--more futile even than the attempt to read.... Finally the restlessness became unbearable in the quiet of the house. She sprang up; she would go out--maybe the soft spring air and the out-of-doors would calm her. She wanted to go--go--go! To do something.... She dressed hurriedly--putting on a quiet street-suit with a small hat, and a white veil to conceal her face from the casual passer-by. As she passed her mother's door Mrs. Mourraille saw her. "I'm going out for a walk," Stephanie said in answer to the look of polite inquiry. "I must do something--I'm as nervous as a filly." "It will do you good," replied Mrs. Mourraille. "Do you wish me to go with you?" "If you don't mind, _ma mère_, I think I can walk off better alone--you understand?" "Perfectly, my dear," her mother smiled. "We understand each other, I hope," as Stephanie bent and kissed her. Once on the Avenue and swinging along at rapid pace, Stephanie felt better--the restlessness was having vent. It was Sunday and the people she passed were mainly of the working class. They were out for an airing on the only day of the week that permitted. Occasionally she encountered some one whom she knew, but the veil was excuse for neither seeing them, nor noticing that they saw--if they did. Now and then, some man would stare impertinently at her; but it lasted only for the instant. She was passing, and she did not mind--for there again the veil was her protection, though she knew that, like enough, the veil was the reason or the excuse for the stare. She reached the entrance to the Park and turned in, choosing presently a bridle-path that took off from the main drive. It was retired and quiet, and ran amid the great trees from which vines hung in huge festoons of verdure. The path was soft and in fine condition, and on the turf that bordered it the foot fell without sound or shock. Overhead the birds whistled and sang, the wind played lightly among the leaves through which the sun penetrated timidly as though uncertain of its welcome. After a mile or two she unconsciously hummed a song, and realized it only when it ended and the break came. She smiled to herself, and began to whistle softly one of the airs from _In a Persian Garden_. When it was finished, she whistled it again.