The clock-like stroke of the horse's high-lifted feet came sharply out on the hard road. The cushioned springs under them creaked softly now and then, and the hum of the slender, glittering spokes was noiseless and drowsy.
"You haven't changed much," said Judith, "except for the better."
"You haven't changed at all. You couldn't—for better or worse."
Judith smiled dreamily and her eyes were looking backward—very far backward. Suddenly they were shot with mischief.
"Why, you really don't seem to—" she hesitated—"to like me any more."
"I really don't—" Crittenden, too, hesitated—"don't like you any more—not as I did."
"You wrote me that."
"Yes."
The girl gave a low laugh. How often he had played this harmless little part. But there was a cool self-possession about him that she had never seen before. She had come home, prepared to be very nice to him, and she was finding it easy.
"And you never answered," said Crittenden.