"That's in business," pronounced Rupert succinctly. "I'm going on, Darling; it's only a two-mile run."
"Here, wait," Dick urged. "Emily, I'll stroll around to the stables with him and make one of the men drive him down. You don't mind my leaving you?"
"No," Emily answered. "I will wait for you."
She might have walked back alone, if she had chosen. But instead she sat down on a boulder near the hedge, folding her hands in her lap like a demure child. The house was so dull, so hopelessly monotonous contrasted with this fresh, wind-tossed outdoors and Lestrange in his vigor of life and glamour of ultramodern adventure.
"You and Mr. Ffrench are very good," Lestrange said presently. "I am afraid I appreciate it more than Rupert, though."
"Is he really afraid of horses?"
"I should not wonder; I never tried him. But he is amazingly truthful."
Their eyes met across the strip of sunny road as they smiled; again Emily felt the sudden confidence, the falling away of all constraint before the direct clarity of his regard.
"You won your race," she said irrelevantly. "I was glad, since you wanted it."
"Thank you," he returned with equal simplicity. "But I did not want it that way, so far as I was concerned."