"Oh, Clare, don't joke. What if they are killed?"
"Killed? Nonsense. Why, here they are!"
Over the brow of the rising ground they came, Godfrey leading both the horses, Connie by his side, limping a little, spattered with mud from head to foot, her hair wild, her cheeks flaming.
"I didn't fall off," she announced jubilantly. "Not until right at the very end. Oh, it was glorious. I galloped, and Mr. Neale galloped. We had a race, hadn't we, Mr. Neale? Did you see him jump the hedge? Oh, Muriel, you do look queer. Your eyes are popping out of your head. Were you frightened? I wasn't frightened a bit, although we went at a terrific rate right down the field."
"I was," laughed Godfrey. "I was in a blue funk."
Clare looked at him. "How high is that fence?"
"I don't know. N—nothing much." It confronted them then, laced thick and high with blackthorn, a nasty obstacle under the best conditions.
"With a loose girth and one rein," half-whispered Clare. "That was great riding, Mr. Neale."
They walked back to the house together, Connie chattering all the way. She was upborne upon the wings of triumph. She had conquered her fear, conquered Muriel's prudishness, and Clare's attractions, and the indifference of the Weare Grange. She was happy.
Muriel saw her happiness with a sudden heartache, for she saw also what Connie did not see.