Her pleasure in Selwyn's society had gradually become such genuine pleasure, her confidence in his kindness so unaffectedly sincere, that, insensibly, she had fallen into something of his manner of badinage--especially since she realised how much amusement he found in her own smiling confusion when unexpectedly assailed. Also, to her surprise, she found that he could be plagued very easily, though she did not quite dare to at first, in view of his impressive years and experience. But once goaded to it, she was astonished to find how suddenly it seemed to readjust their personal relations--years and experience falling from his shoulders like a cloak which had concealed a man very nearly her own age; years and experience adding themselves to her, and at least an inch to her stature to redress the balance between them. It had amused him immensely as he realised the subtle change; and it pleased him, too, because no man of thirty-five cares to be treated _en grandpere_ by a girl of nineteen, even if she has not yet worn the polish from her first pair of high-heeled shoes. "It's astonishing," he said, "how little respect infirmity and age command in these days." "I do respect you," she insisted, "especially your infirmity of purpose. You said you were going to ride by yourself. But, do you know, I don't believe you are of a particularly solitary disposition; are you?" He laughed at first, then suddenly his face fell. "Not from choice," he said, under his breath. Her quick ear heard, and she turned, semi-serious, questioning him with raised eyebrows. "Nothing; I was just muttering. I've a villainous habit of muttering mushy nothings--" "You _did_ say something!" "No; only ghoulish gabble; the mere murky mouthings of a meagre mind." "You _did_. It's rude not to repeat it when I ask you." "I didn't mean to be rude." "Then repeat what you said to yourself." "Do you wish me to?" he asked, raising his eyes so gravely that the smile faded from lip and voice when she answered: "I beg your pardon, Captain Selwyn. I did not know you were serious." "Oh, I'm not," he returned lightly, "I'm never serious. No man who soliloquises can be taken seriously. Don't you know, Miss Erroll, that the crowning absurdity of all tragedy is the soliloquy?" Her smile became delightfully uncertain; she did not quite understand him--though her instinct warned her that, for a second, something had menaced their understanding. Riding forward with him through the crisp sunshine of mid-December, the word "tragedy" still sounding in her ears, her thoughts reverted naturally to the only tragedy besides her own which had ever come very near to her--his own. Could he have meant _that_? Did people mention such things after they had happened? Did they not rather conceal them, hide them deeper and deeper with the aid of time and the kindly years for a burial past all recollection?