She left the room and returned shortly with biscuit and tea. She filled a cup, put in two lumps of sugar, and passed the cup to him.
"You've a good memory," he said, smiling at her. "It's nice to have one's likes remembered, even in a cup of tea. I look as if I had been to war, don't I?"
She buttered a biscuit. He ate it, not because he was hungry, but because her fingers had touched it. It was a phantom kiss. He put the cup down.
"Now, which is it; have I been licked, or have I won?"
"What!" she cried; "do you mean to tell me you do not know?" She gazed at him bewilderedly.
"I have been four hours in the saddle. I know nothing, save that which instinct and the sweet melancholy of your voice tell me. Betty, tell me, I've been licked, haven't I, and old Dick has gone and done it, eh?"
The girl choked for a moment; there was a sob in her throat.
"Yes, John."
Newcomb reached over and tapped the hearth with his riding-crop, absent-mindedly. The girl gazed at him, her eyes shining in a mist of unshed tears.... She longed to reach out her hand and smooth the furrows from his careworn brow, to brush the melting crystals of snow from his hair; longed to soothe the smart of defeat which she knew was burning his heart. She knew that only strong men suffer in silence.
From a half-opened window the night breathed upon them, freighted with the far-off murmur of voices.