“Oh, it’s no good talking to you—I don’t want——” She turned away, went to the laurestinus, and began pulling off it the long red berries. I expected she would fret the evening wastefully away. I noticed all at once that she stood still. It was the noise of a motor-car running rapidly down the hill towards Nethermere—a light, quick-clicking sound. I listened also. I could feel the swinging drop of the car as it came down the leaps of the hill. We could see the dust trail up among the trees. Lettie raised her head and listened expectantly. The car rushed along the edge of Nethermere—then there was the jar of brakes, as the machine slowed down and stopped. In a moment with a quick flutter of sound, it was passing the lodge-gates and whirling up the drive, through the wood, to us. Lettie stood with flushed cheeks and brightened eyes. She went towards the bushes that shut off the lawn from the gravelled space in front of the house, watching. A car came racing through the trees. It was the small car Leslie used on the firm’s business—now it was white with dust. Leslie suddenly put on the brakes, and tore to a standstill in front of the house. He stepped to the ground. There he staggered a little, being giddy and cramped with the long drive. His motor-jacket and cap were thick with dust. Lettie called to him, “Leslie!”—and flew down to him. He took her into his arms, and clouds of dust rose round her. He kissed her, and they stood perfectly still for a moment. She looked up into his face—then she disengaged her arms to take off his disfiguring motor-spectacles. After she had looked at him a moment, tenderly, she kissed him again. He loosened his hold of her, and she said, in a voice full of tenderness: “You are trembling, dear.” “It’s the ride. I’ve never stopped.” Without further words she took him into the house. “How pale you are—see, lie on the couch—never mind the dust. All right, I’ll find you a coat of Cyril’s. O, mother, he’s come all those miles in the car without stopping—make him lie down.” She ran and brought him a jacket, and put the cushions round, and made him lie on the couch. Then she took off his boots and put slippers on his feet. He lay watching her all the time; he was white with fatigue and excitement. “I wonder if I shall be had up for scorching—I can feel the road coming at me yet,” he said. “Why were you so headlong?” “I felt as if I should go wild if I didn’t come—if I didn’t rush. I didn’t know how you might have taken me, Lettie when I said—what I did.” She smiled gently at him, and he lay resting, recovering, looking at her. “It’s a wonder I haven’t done something desperate—I’ve been half mad since I said—Oh, Lettie, I was a damned fool and a wretch—I could have torn myself in two. I’ve done nothing but curse and rage at myself ever since. I feel as if I’d just come up out of hell. You don’t know how thankful I am, Lettie, that you’ve not—oh—turned against me for what I said.”