"Yes; she's gone to London, to some relations of ours—that is, mamma's, you know!"
Drake didn't know where she had gone, but he thought he understood why she had gone. She meant to abide by her resolution to break with him. Her love had changed to distrust, perhaps—God knew!—to actual dislike.
He turned to the horse and mechanically arranged the bridle.
"It—it doesn't matter," he said. "I'll take the horse down. Oh, by the way, Dick, I may have to go to London to-night."
"What, you, too!" said Dick. "I say, there's nothing serious the matter, is there? It's only a lovers' tiff, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid not," said Drake, as calmly as he could. "See here, Dick, we won't talk about it; I can't. Your—your sister has broken our engagement——Hold on! there's no use discussing it. She's quite right. Do you hear? She's quite right," he repeated, with a sudden fierceness. "Everything she says is right. I—I admit it. I am to blame."
"Why, that's what she said!" exclaimed the mystified and somewhat exasperated Dick.
"What she has said is true—too true," continued Drake; "and there's no more to be said. When you write—if you see her, tell her that—that—I obey her—it's the least I can do—and that I won't—won't worry her. Her word, her wish, is law to me. And—and you may say I deserve it all. You may say, too, that——"
He broke off, and slowly, with the heaviness of a man become suddenly tired, got on his horse.
"No; say nothing, excepting that I obey her, and that I won't worry her. Good-by, Dick."