"But I am. That's the real me. It is truly; the real, deep-down me, the me that's worth anything."
"No," said Mary, shaking her head, "I don't believe it; you have some consideration for other people."
"Not in that sense; if there was anything, any big thing, I had to put through—no one should stand in my way. And it's the same with anything I want very much. I go straight for it, and it matters nothing to me who gets knocked down on the route . . . and so you'll find," Reggie added very low.
They were looking each other straight in the face, Mary a little breathless and wondering: "And so you'll find," Reggie repeated a little louder, and there was a look in his eyes that caused Mary to drop hers, and she rode on.
Reggie caught her up.
"Are you sorry, Mary?" he asked gently.
"About what?"
"Well . . . about everything. The story, and my ferocious mental attitude, and all the rest of it."
He laid his hand on her horse's neck, and leaned forward to look in her face. They were riding very close together, and Mary was too near the hedge to put more distance between them.
"I can't be sorry you write so well," she said slowly, "it is very exciting—is the news for publication or not?"