She looked up at him.
"You can have no idea how happy you make me," he said unsteadily.
"But—I—but I may be all wrong—dreadfully wrong!"
"Y-es; you may be, but I shall not be. For do you know that I have already seen her in the Park?"
"When?" she demanded incredulously, then turned in the saddle, repeating: "Where? Did she pass? How perfectly stupid of me! And was she the—the right one?"
"She is the right one. . . . Don't turn: I have seen her. Ride on: I want to say something—if I can."
"No, no," she insisted. "I must know whether I was right—"
"You are right—but you don't know it yet. . . . Oh, very well, then; we'll turn if you insist." And he wheeled his mount as she did, riding at her bridle again.
"How can you take it so coolly—so indifferently?" she said. "Where has that woman—where has she gone? . . . Never mind; she must turn and pass us sooner or later, for she lives uptown. What are you laughing at, Mr. Gatewood?"—in annoyed surprise.
"I am laughing at myself. Oh, I'm so many kinds of a fool—you can't think how many, and it's no use!"