"I'm not going to talk about it," he said.
"I wanted to know how much love really matters. That horse is much nearer now. We'll see the lights soon. And there's some one by the roadside, smoking. It's George. Good-evening, George."
His deep voice rumbled through the darkness, exchanging salutations. "I'm waiting for the doctor."
"Some one's coming now."
"Yes, it's his old nag. That horse makes you believe in eternity, anyhow."
She felt a sudden, painful anger. "He's a friend of mine—the horse," and quietly, she repeated to herself, "The horse," because he had no name by which she could endear him.
"Is Mr. Halkett worse?" John asked, from the edge of the road.
The red end of Halkett's cigar glowed and faded. "I'm anxious about him."
The yellow lights of the approaching dog-cart swept the borders of the moor and Helen felt herself caught in the illumination. The horse stopped and she heard the doctor's clear-cut voice.
"Is that you, Helen?"