"Or feel sorry if I came to grief—"
"And a good many untrue and wicked ones for which I have repented afterwards."
"Well, I did come to grief—or pretty nearly. I met three Polish workmen on the road. I think they were—intoxicated. Anyway, they tried to stop me. I was lucky in managing to turn in here—so quickly they didn't realize what I was going to do. If I hadn't been near the entrance to this wood-road—Austin, what makes you grip my hand so? You hurt."
"Promise me you'll never ride alone again," he said, his voice shaking.
"I certainly never shall."
"And could you possibly promise me, too, that you'll forgive the absolutely unforgivable way I've acted all summer, and give me a chance to show that I can do better—Sylvia?"
"Oh, yes, yes! Please don't feel badly about that. I—I—never misunderstood at all. I know you've had an awfully hard row to hoe, and that's made you bitter, and—any man hates to have a woman help—financially. Besides"—she hesitated, and went on with a humility very different from her usual sweet imperiousness—"I've been pretty unhappy myself, and it's made me self-willed and obstinate and dictatorial."
"You! You're—more like an angel than I ever dreamed any woman could be."
"Oh, I'm not, I'm not—please don't think so for a minute. Because, if you do, we'll start out on a false basis, and not be real friends, the way I hope we're going to be now—"
"Yes—"