And Nell was thinking, or, rather, musing; for though she was taking lessons, she was too good a rider to be absorbed in the management of her horse.

Had she not scampered over these same moors on a half-wild Exmoor pony, bare-backed, and with a halter for a bridle?

She was thinking of the weeks that had pa.s.sed since the man who was riding beside her had been flung at her feet, and wondering, half unconsciously, at the happiness of those weeks. There had scarcely been a day in which he and she had not walked or sailed, or sat on the quay together. She recalled their first sail in the _Annie Laurie_; there had been many since then; and he had been so kind, so genial a companion, that she had begun to feel as if he were an old friend, a kind of second d.i.c.k.

At times, it was true, he was silent and gloomy, not to say morose; but, as a rule, he was kind, with a gentle, protective sort of kindness which, believe me, is duly appreciated by even such a simple, unsophisticated girl as Nell.

As she rode beside him, she glanced now and again at the handsome face, which was grave and lined with thought, and she wondered, girllike, upon what he was musing.

Suddenly he turned to her.

"Yes, you don't need much teaching," he said, with a smile. "You ride awfully well, as it is. With a little practice--you won't forget about holding the reins a little farther; from you?--you will ride like Lady Lucille herself."

"Who is Lady Lucille?" she asked.

He looked just a shade embarra.s.sed for a moment, but only for a moment.

"Oh, she's the crack fashionable rider," he said casually.

"I feel very much flattered," said Nell. "And I am very grateful for your lesson. I hope you won't discontinue them because I show some promise."

He looked at her with sudden gravity. Now was the time to tell her that he was going to leave Shorne Mills.

"You won't want many more," he said; "but I hope you will let me ride with you while I'm here. I must be going presently."

"Must you?" she said.

Girls learn the art of mastering their voices much earlier than the opposite s.e.x can, and her voice sounded indifferent enough, or just properly regretful.

He nodded.

"Yes, I must leave Shorne Mills, worse luck."

"If it is so unlucky, why do you go? But why is it so unlucky?" she asked; and still her tone sounded indifferent.

"It's bad luck because--well, because I have been very happy here," he said, checking his horse into a walk.

She glanced at him as she paced beside him.

"You have been so happy here? Really? That sounds so strange. It is such a dull, quiet place."

"Perhaps it's because of that," he said. "G.o.d knows, I'm not anxious to get back to London--the world."

She looked at him thoughtfully with her clear, girlish eyes; and he met the glance, then looked across the moor with something like a frown.

"There is a fascination in the place," he said. "It is so beautiful and so quiet; and--and--London is so noisy, such a blare. And----"

He paused.

She kept the high-bred mare to a walk.

"But will you not be glad to go?" she asked. "It must be dull here, as I said. You must have so many friends who--who will be glad to see you, and whom you will be glad to see."

He smiled cynically.

"Friends!" he said grimly. "Has any one many friends? And how many of the people I know will, I wonder, be glad to see me? They will find it pleasant to pity me."

"Pity you! Why?" she asked, her beautiful eyes turned on him with surprise.

Drake bit his lip.

"Well, I've had a piece of bad luck lately," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" murmured Nell.

He laughed grimly.

"Oh, it's no more than I had a right to expect. Don't forget what I told you about holding your reins--that's right."

"Is it about money?" she asked timidly. "I always think bad luck means that."

He nodded.

"Yes; I've lost a great deal of money lately," he replied vaguely.

"And--and I must leave Shorne Mills."

"I am sorry," she said simply, and without attempting to conceal her regret. "I--we--have almost grown to think that you belonged here. Will you be sorry to go?"

He glanced at her innocent eyes and frowned.

"Yes; very much," he replied. "There is a fascination in this place. It is so quiet, so beautiful, so remote, so far away from the world which I hate!"

"You hate? Why do you hate it?" she asked.

He bit his lip again.

"Because it is false and hollow," he replied. "No man--or woman--thinks what he or she says, or says what he or she thinks."

"Then why go back to it?" she asked. "But all the people in London can't be--bad and false," she added, as if she were considering his sweeping condemnation.

"Oh, not all," he said. "I've been unfortunate in my acquaintances, perhaps, as Voltaire said."

He looked across the moor again absently. Her question, "Then why go back to it?" haunted him. It was absurd to imagine that he could remain at Shorne Mills. The quiet life had been pleasant, he had felt better in health here than he had done for years; but--well, a man who has spent so many years in the midst of the whirl of life is very much like the old prisoner of the Bastille who, when he was released by the revolutionary mob, implored to be taken back again. One gets used to the din and clamor of society as one gets used to the solemn quiet of a prison. Besides, he was, or had been, a prominent figure in the gallantry show, and he seemed to belong to it.

"One isn't always one's own master," he said, after a pause.

Nell turned her eyes to him.