"The dance is over," says she, "and the gardens are exquisitely lit. Lady Warbeck has great taste. After all, Maurice," slipping her hand into his arm, "our bet is a purely imaginary one. We know nothing. And perhaps I have been a little severe; but as it is a bet, I am willing to lose it to you. Let us take one turn down this walk that leads to the dahlias, and after that——"
"After that——"
"Why, you win, perhaps."
"As you will," says he listlessly.
His heart is still on fire. Not a word passes his lips as they go down the path. His eyes feel strained, hurt; they are staring—staring always towards the end of this path, where a seat is, so hedged round with creepers that one can scarcely see it. Will she be there? He turns abruptly to his companion.
"I am sick of this," says he; "I shall go no farther."
"But your bet?"
"It is a damnable bet!" exclaims he fiercely. "I ought to be ashamed of myself for having made it. You win it, of course, in a sense, as I decline to go on with it; but, still, I believe that I win it in fact."
"You are afraid," says she, with a daring that astonishes even herself.
"I am afraid of forgetting that once I was a gentleman," says he curtly.