“You should do so much––be so much in the world,” she answered, thoughtfully.
“Sans peur et sans reproche!” he cried, half-amused, half-cheerlessly. “What a pity I met you––too late!”
They were now at the broad entrance of the brilliantly-lighted hotel. Several loungers, smoking their after-dinner cigars, gazed at the couple curiously.
“Mauville’s a lucky dog,” said one.
“Yes; he was born with a silver spoon,” replied the person addressed.
As he passed through the envious throng, the land baron had regained his self-command, although his face was marked with an unusual pallor. In his mind one thought was paramount––that the walk begun at the burial-ground was drawing to an end; their last walk; the finale of all between them! Yet he could call to mind nothing further to say. His story had been told; the conclusion reached. She, too, had spoken, and he knew she would never speak differently. Bewildered and unable to adjust his new and strange feelings, it dawned upon him he had never understood himself and her; that he had never really known what love was, and he stood abashed, confronted by his own ignorance. Passion, caprice, fancy, he had seen depth in their shallows, but now looked down and discerned the pebbly bottom. All this and much more surged through his brain as he made his way through the crowd, and, entering the corridor of 382 the hotel, took formal leave of the young girl at the stairway.
“Good-night, Miss Carew,” he said, gravely.
“Good-night,” she replied. And then, on the steps, she turned and looked down at him, extending her hand: “Thank you!”
That half-timid, low “thank you!” he knew was all he would ever receive from her. He hardly felt the hand-clasp; he was hardly conscious when she turned away. A heavier hand fell upon his shoulder.
“You sly dog!” said a thick voice. “Well, a judge of a good horse is a judge of a handsome woman! We’re making up a few bets on the horses to-morrow. Colonel Ogelby will ride Dolly D, and I’m to ride my Gladiator. It’ll be a gentlemen’s race.”