There had been so many upheavals in the game that the trouble between Dic and Rita brought it to a close.
Dic was wounded, and poor Rita felt that now she had driven him from her forever. Her eyes followed him about the room with wistful longing, and although they were eloquent enough to have told their piteous little story to one who knew anything about the language of great tender eyes, they spoke nothing but reproachfulness to Dic. He did not go near her, but after a time she went to him and said:—
"I believe I will go home; but I am not afraid to go alone, and you need not go with me—that is, if you don't want to."
"I do want to go with you," he responded. "I would not let you ride by yourself. Even should nothing harm you, the howling of a wolf would frighten you almost to death."
She had no intention of riding home alone. She knew she would die from fright before she had ridden a hundred yards into the black forest, so she said demurely:—
"Of course, if you will go with me after—"
"I would go with you after anything," he answered, but she thought he spoke with a touch of anger.
Had Dic ever hoped to gain more than a warm friendship from the girl that hope had been shattered for all time, and never, never, never would he obtrude his love upon her again. As a matter of fact, he had not obtruded it upon her even once, but he had thought of doing it so many times that he felt as if he had long been an importunate suitor.