The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. Then the inner door opened abruptly. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Visible underneath his collar were some metal tags. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. “Well, you know. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love.
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