“My dear girl, you are still on the sunny side of eighteen, and you know very little of this world. Less than you think. But you will learn. Before you write all those novels we have talked about, you will have to learn. And that’s one point—” He hesitated. “You started and blushed when the man at breakfast called you Ma’am. You thought it a funny mistake, but you did not say anything because he was young and nervous—and besides, the thought of being my wife offended your modesty. You didn’t care to notice it. But—you see; I gave your name as _Mrs_. Beaumont.” He looked almost apologetic, in spite of his cynical pose. “_Mrs_. Beaumont,” he repeated, pulling his flaxen moustache and watching the effect. She looked into his eyes speechless. “I am learning fast,” she said slowly, at last. He thought the time had come for an emotional attack. “Jessie,” he said, with a sudden change of voice, “I know all this is mean, is villanous. But do you think that I have done all this scheming, all this subterfuge, for any other object—” She did not seem to listen to his words. “I shall ride home,” she said abruptly. “To her?” She winced. “Just think,” said he, “what she could say to you after this.” “Anyhow, I shall leave you now.” “Yes? And go—” “Go somewhere to earn my living, to be a free woman, to live without conventionality—” “My dear girl, do let us be cynical. You haven’t money and you haven’t credit. No one would take you in. It’s one of two things: go back to your stepmother, or—trust to me.” “How _can_ I?” “Then you must go back to her.” He paused momentarily, to let this consideration have its proper weight. “Jessie, I did not mean to say the things I did. Upon my honour, I lost my head when I spoke so. If you will, forgive me. I am a man. I could not help myself. Forgive me, and I promise you—” “How can I trust you?” “Try me. I can assure you—” She regarded him distrustfully. “At any rate, ride on with me now. Surely we have been in the shadow of this horrible bridge long enough.” “Oh! let me think,” she said, half turning from him and pressing her hand to her brow. “_Think!_ Look here, Jessie. It is ten o’clock. Shall we call a truce until one?” She hesitated, demanded a definition of the truce, and at last agreed. They mounted, and rode on in silence, through the sunlight and the heather. Both were extremely uncomfortable and disappointed. She was pale, divided between fear and anger. She perceived she was in a scrape, and tried in vain to think of a way of escape. Only one tangible thing would keep in her mind, try as she would to ignore it. That was the quite irrelevant fact that his head was singularly like an albino cocoanut. He, too, felt thwarted. He felt that this romantic business of seduction was, after all, unexpectedly tame. But this was only the beginning. At any rate, every day she spent with him was a day gained. Perhaps things looked worse than they were; that was some consolation.