"Never mind about that," she said kindly. "I am glad if it has happened so. And this girl—it is someone you—love?"
"I can't talk to anyone of her—yet," he answered, avoiding her eyes; "only I wanted you to understand—it is at least a little step toward that level where you fancy I may belong. Don't speak of it again; I can hardly say what impelled me to tell you now. Yes, it is a woman I cared for, and who was—lost—whom I lost—long ago."
A moment later she was alone, and could hear his step in the outer room, then on the porch. Fred called after him, but he made no halt—did not even answer, much to the surprise of that young lady and Miss Margaret.
The other girl sat watching him until he disappeared in the stables, and a little later saw him emerge and ride at no slow gait out over the trail toward camp.
"It only needed that finale," she soliloquized, "to complete the picture. Woman! woman! What a disturbing element you are in the universe—man's universe!"
After this bit of trite philosophy, the smile developed into a noiseless laugh that had something of irony in it.
"I rather think Talapa's entrance was more dramatic," was one of the reflections that kept her company; "anyway, she was more picturesque, if less elegant, than Mrs. Stuart is likely to be. Mrs. Stuart! By the way, I wonder if it is Mrs. Stuart? Yes, I suppose so—yet, 'a woman whom I cared for, and who was lost—long ago!'—Lost? lost?"