It was on a bleak, sandy stretch of Long Island road that she met Corrie, a solitary figure against the flat landscape as he came towards her. At sight of her little carriage and the cream-colored ponies he himself long before had taught her to drive, he stopped, his boyish face brightening warmly.
"Other Fellow," was all he said, when she leaned towards him with her unaltering love of glance and smile.
There was no need to ask where he had been.
"How is Mr. Gerard, dear?" she ventured, after he was seated beside her and they had commenced the return.
"Better."
"You go there every day to ask?"
"Every day."
"And, he——"
"He has seen me every day, even the worst. He talks about politics, the aviation meet, the motor magazines,—about everything except himself or me. It is his right arm, now, the other hurts are almost well. To-day I met the doctor, going out as I was coming in. I asked about him——"
Flavia raised her eyes to meet his, shrinking from the verdict that speech must establish beyond the refuge of doubt. Very gently he laid his hand over hers upon the reins and brought the ponies to a standstill.