Mr. Treffry groaned. “Lord knows!”
“Men have made themselves before now. For those who don't believe in failure, there's no such thing. Suppose she does suffer a little? Will it do her any harm? Fair weather love is no good.”
Mr. Treffry sighed.
“Brave words, sir! You'll pardon me if I'm too old to understand 'em when they're used about my niece.”
He pulled the horses up, and peered into the darkness. “We're going through this bit quietly; if they lose track of us here so much the better. Dominique! put out the lamps. Soho, my beauties!” The horses paced forward at a walk the muffled beat of their hoofs in the dust hardly broke the hush. Mr. Treffry pointed to the left: “It'll be another thirty-five miles to the frontier.”
They passed the whitewashed houses, and village church with its sentinel cypress-trees. A frog was croaking in a runlet; there was a faint spicy scent of lemons. But nothing stirred.
It was wood now on either side, the high pines, breathing their fragrance out into the darkness, and, like ghosts amongst them, the silver stems of birch-trees.
Mr. Treffry said gruffly: “You won't give her up? Her happiness means a lot to me.”
“To you!” said Harz: “to him! And I am nothing! Do you think I don't care for her happiness? Is it a crime for me to love her?”
“Almost, Mr. Harz—considering....”