"Oh, shut up!" the other retorted, laughing in spite of himself. "Can't you see I'm in earnest? You don't mean to tell me——?"
"No, Harry, I don't mean to tell you anything about it. I'm not responsible to you for my actions. Stay and have a pipe with me to cool you down a bit. Not another word about my affairs, or I take you by the shoulders and put you outside the door."
Thus much for Denvil. But the rest could not be treated in this summary fashion.
Wyndham put in an appearance at polo that afternoon. He played fitfully; and at other times rode out to the ground, which lay a mile or so beyond the station. To-day it chanced—or possibly Paul so contrived it—that he and Desmond rode home together, a little behind the others.
A low sun stretched out all the hills; distorted the shadows of the riders; and flung a golden pollen of radiance over the barren land.
The habit of silence was strong between these two men; and for a while it lasted unbroken. Desmond was riding his favourite pony, a spirited chestnut Arab, swift as a swallow, sensitive as a child, bearing on his forehead the white star to which he owed his name. The snaffle hung loose upon his neck, and Desmond's hand rested upon the silken shoulder as if in a mute caress. He knew what was coming, and awaited Paul's pleasure with stoical resignation.
Wyndham considered the strong, straight lines of his friend's profile thoughtfully; then he spoke:
"You gave us all rather a shock this morning, Theo."
"I'm sorry for that. I was afraid there'd be some bother about it. But needs must—when the devil drives."