"Gone home," she answered, demurely.
"I'm afraid I've spoilt your ride," I said. "I'm sorry."
"Not at all," she answered, still without looking at me. "You spoilt his, I think."
I answered nothing. I dared not. I felt that there was safety for me only in silence. And so we rode on, our horses' feet sinking silently into the short, green turf as we cantered slowly through the park. From behind the dark plantations on our right the moon had risen into a clear sky, and every now and then the Black Prince started and shied slightly at the grotesque shadows cast by the giant oak-trees under which we rode. Where they were thickest a few bats flew out and wheeled for a minute or two round our heads before disappearing in the opposite thickets.
"Are you afraid to talk to me, Mr. Arbuthnot, or can't you think of anything to say?" Maud suddenly asked.
The words which I intended to speak died away on my lips. A subtle power seemed to be struggling with my will and intoxicating my senses. I answered blindly—
"I am afraid to talk to you, Miss Devereux, because I have too much to say."
She turned round and looked at me, her deep blue eyes full of a half-inviting, half-mocking light which nearly drove me mad. She, at any rate, was quite at her case.
"Are you going to try and flirt with me, Mr. Arbuthnot?" she asked, lightly. "I am not Lady Olive."
Just then the Black Prince shied as we rode across the shadow of a gigantic oak-tree, and we were so close together that our horses' heads nearly touched. One of her shapely hands was hanging carelessly down, toying with her whip, and, scarcely knowing what I did, I caught hold of it and held it to my lips. She drew it away, but she might have drawn it away a second sooner had she chosen.