There was no doubt in Miss Tancred's mind on the delicate point. She was even capable of making a sacrifice to keep him.
He met her one morning riding on her black mare. Miss Tancred looked well on horseback; the habit, the stiff collar, the hard hat, were positively becoming, perhaps because they left no room for decorative caprice. She drew up, and Durant ran his hand lovingly over the warm shining neck and shoulders of the mare. Miss Tancred's eyes followed the movements of his hand, then they traveled up his tall figure and down again.
"Your legs are rather long," said she, "and you're heavier than I am; but you can ride her if you like."
"I shouldn't think of it," said Durant, magnificently mendacious. He had been very early enlightened as to his chances with the mare; but the temptation to ride her had never died in him.
"Unless you ride," she continued, "there is nothing for you to do here. Then you'll be bored to death; and then, I suppose, you'll go?"
"You won't be buried long. You'll rise again fast enough, somewhere else."
"And what if I do go and do all these things?"
"Well, I don't want you to go—and do them."
She moved on, and he walked beside her, his hand on the mare's mane.