"Drive along, Bab," he directed; "I'll follow."
There was another byroad, a turn-off from the main drive, a short way beyond; and there, as if of his own accord, the cob swung on. Tunneled in that aisle of greenery Varick and Bab were alone, alone indeed. Reaching over as his mount cantered on beside the cob, he touched the hand that held the reins.
"Pull up, Bab," he said, adding then: "You must not feel like that. Now tell me what's wrong." Her mouth was quivering. She had been sitting there all the time with the tears brimming in her eyes. "You know," Varick added quietly, "I want to help you."
That fixed it.
"Oh, Bayard, Bayard!" cried Bab brokenly. He did not speak, but he again slipped from the saddle and, with the reins looped over his arm, came and stood beside the wheel.
"How can I tell you!" she went on. "The other night, the time when you danced with me, I knew what I ought to do, but I couldn't. It was all so strange, all so sudden. I'd been blinded by it. All the new life I'd lived, that and all it had brought me, seemed to have blurred everything. It wasn't just what they'd said to me that made me turn from you; all along, from the very first, from the time at Mrs. Tilney's, I'd felt you didn't think I was as good as you were. When the money came I thought it would change things. Then the more I thought the more I knew it wouldn't. I was still as I'd always been; if you married me I'd still be the same. And then my grandfather told me it would be like you to want to marry me now, to want me for my—my money. And David didn't. He wanted me for myself, just that. I could be sure of that; he'd have his own money, you know. He'll be as rich as I'll be some day."
"As rich as you'll be, Bab?"
"Yes," Bab answered—"when grandfather dies, that is."
Varick dared not meet her eyes. In his heart he could have wept for her. Presently his glance returned to her.
"Then it wasn't just David's money, David's position, that tempted you? That's not why you took him, is it?"