vacuum. So I drink--not so very much yet--but more than I realize. And it is close enough to a habit to worry me. . . . Yes, almost all you say is true; Kerns knows it; I know it--now that you have told me. You see, he couldn't tell me, because I should not have believed him. But I believe you--all you say, except one thing. And that is only a glimmer of decency left in me--not that I make any merit of it. No, it is merely instinctive. For I have _not_ turned on the woman I loved."

Her face was pale as her level eyes met him:

"You said she was nothing to you... Look there! Do you see her? Do you see?"

Her voice broke nervously as he swung around to stare at a rider bearing down at a gallop--a woman on a big roan, tearing along through the spring sunshine, passing them with wind-flushed cheeks and dark, incurious eyes, while her powerful horse carried her on, away through the quivering light and shadow of the woodland vista.

"Is _that_ the person?"

"Y-es," she faltered. "Was I wrong?"

"Quite wrong, Miss Southerland."

"But--but you said you had seen her here this morning!"

"Yes, I have."

"Did you speak to her before you met me?"

"No--not before I met you."

"Then you have not spoken to her. Is she still here in the Park?"

"Yes, she is still here."

The girl turned on him excitedly: "Do you mean to say that you will not speak to her?"

"I had rather not--"

"And your happiness depends on your speaking?"

"Yes."

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