"Strange, strange," he said to himself; "he seems familiar, and yet—"
She rose and reached out her hand for the glass. He gave it to her. She raised it to her eyes, but, at that moment, the horseman swerved into the road again, and was lost to view. Suddenly Houghton started; an enigmatical smile passed across his face.
"Alice," said he, "did you mean what you said about the steeplechase—
I mean about the ride down the White Bluff road?"
"I meant all I said," was her bitter reply.
"You think life is a mistake?" he rejoined.
"I think we have made a mistake," was her answer; "a deadly mistake, and it lasts all our lives."
He walked to the door, trained the glass again on the hill, then afterwards turned round, and said:
"If ever you think of riding the White Bluff road—straight for the cliff itself and over—tell me, and I'll ride it with you. If it's all wrong as it is, it's all wrong for both, and, maybe, the worst of what comes after is better than the worst of what is here."
They had been frank with each other in the past, but never so frank as this. He was determined that they should be still more frank; and so was she. "Alice," he said—
"Wait a minute," she interjected. "I have something to say, Tom. I never told you—indeed, I thought I never should tell you; but now I think it's best to do so. I loved a man once—with all my soul."