He helped her into the car and wrapped a rug round her; then he climbed in beside her. And as they swung out of the little square, the strains of the next dance followed them from the open windows of the Town Hall.
He drove as he danced—perfectly; and in the dim light the girl watched his clear-cut profile as he stared ahead into the glare of the headlights. Away to the right his farm flashed by, the last house before they reached the top of the cliffs. And gradually, above the thrumming of the engine, she heard the lazy boom of the big Atlantic swell on the rocks ahead. At last he stopped where the road ran parallel to the top of the cliff, and switched off the lights.
“Well,” she said, a little mockingly, “is the new image correct or a pose?”
“You dance divinely,” he answered gravely. “More divinely than any woman I have ever danced with, and I have danced with those who are reputed to be the show dancers of the world. But I didn’t ask you to come here to talk about dancing; I asked you to come here in order that I might first apologise, and then say Good-bye.”
The girl gave a little start, but said nothing.
“I talked a good deal of rot to you yesterday,” he went on, after a moment. “You were justified in calling me a ranting tub-thumper. But I was angry with myself, and when one is angry with oneself one does foolish things. I know as well as you do just how little society photographs mean: that was only a peg to hang my inexcusable tirade on. You see, when one has fallen in love with an ideal—as I fell in love with that picture of you, all in white in the garden at your father’s place—and you treasure that ideal for three years, it jolts one to find that the ideal is different to what you thought. I fell in love with a girl in white, and sometimes in the wilds I’ve seen visions and dreamed dreams. And then I found her a lovely being in Paquin’s most expensive frocks; a social celebrity: a household name. And then I met her, and knew my girl in white had gone. What matter that it was the inexorable rule of Nature that she must go: what matter that she had changed into an incredibly lovely woman? She had gone: my dream girl had vanished. In her place stood Lady Cynthia Stockdale—the well-known society beauty. Reality had come—and I was angry with you for having killed my dream—angry with myself for having to wake up.
“Such is my apology,” he continued gravely. “Perhaps you will understand: I think you will understand. And just because I was angry with you, I made you dance with me to-night. I said to myself: ‘I will show Lady Cynthia Stockdale that the man who loved the girl in white can meet her successor on her own ground.’ That’s the idea I started with, but things went wrong half-way through the dance. The anger died; in its place there came something else. Even my love for the girl in white seemed to become a bit hazy; I found that the successor had supplanted her more completely than I realised. And since the successor has the world at her feet—why, the breeder of dogs will efface himself, for his own peace of mind. So, good-bye, Lady Cynthia—and the very best of luck. If it won’t bore you I may say that I’m not really a breeder of dogs by profession. This is just an interlude; a bit of rest spent with the most wonderful pals in the world. I’m getting back to harness soon: voluntary harness, I’m glad to say, as the shekels don’t matter. But anything one can do towards greasing the wheels, and helping those priceless fellows who gave everything without a murmur during the war, and who are up against it now—is worth doing.”
And still she said nothing, while he backed the car on to the grass beside the road, and turned it the way they had come. A jumble of strange thoughts were in her mind; a jumble out of which there stuck one dominant thing—the brown tanned face of the man beside her. And when he stopped the car by his own farm and left her without a word of apology, she sat quite motionless staring at the white streak of road in front. At last she heard his footsteps coming back along the drive, and suddenly a warm wriggling bundle was placed in her lap—a bundle which slobbered joyfully and then fell on the floor with an indignant yelp.
“The puppy,” he said quietly. “Please take him.” And very softly under his breath he added: “The best to the best.”
But she heard him, and even as she stooped to lift the puppy on to her knees, her heart began to beat madly. She knew: at last, she knew.