"Then it is cowardly not to speak."
"Oh, yes, it is cowardly. . . . If you wish me to speak to her I will. Shall I?"
"Yes . . . Show her to me."
"And you think that such a man as I am has a right to speak of love to her?"
"I—we believe it will be your salvation. Mr. Kerns says you must marry her to be happy. Mr. Keen told me yesterday that it only needed a word from the right woman to put you on your mettle. . . . And—and that is my opinion."
"Then in charity say that word!" he breathed, bending toward her. "Can't you see? Can't you understand? Don't you know that from the moment I looked into your eyes I loved you?"
"How—how dare you!" she stammered, crimsoning.
"God knows," he said wistfully. "I am a coward. I don't know how I dared. Good-by. . . ."
He walked his horse a little way, then launched him into a gallop, tearing on and on, sun, wind, trees swimming, whirling like a vision, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, save the leaden pounding of his pulse and the breathless, terrible tightening in his throat.
When he cleared his eyes and looked around he was quite alone, his horse walking under the trees and breathing heavily.