She had begun to move away, light-footed, swift as a bird. She
also paused.
"My name is Denys," she said.
He put his hand to his cap again. "Miss Denys?"
"No. Mrs. Denys. Good-bye!"
She was gone. He heard the light feet running up the wet gravel drive and
then the quick opening of a door. It closed again immediately, with
decision, and he stood alone in the wintry dusk.
Caesar crept to him and grovelled abjectly in the mud. The young man
stood motionless, staring at the Vicarage gates, a slight frown between
his brows. He was not tall, but he had the free pose of an athlete and
the bearing of a prince.
Suddenly he glanced down at his cringing companion and broke into a
laugh. "Get up, Caesar, you fool! And think yourself lucky that you've
got any sound bones left! You'd have been reduced to a jelly by this time
if I'd had my way."
He bent with careless good-nature, and patted the miscreant; then turned
towards his horse.
"Poor old Pompey! A shame to keep you standing! All that brute's fault."
He swung himself into the saddle. "By Jove, though, she's got some
pluck!" he said. "I like a woman with pluck!"
He touched his animal with the spur, and in a moment they were speeding
through the gathering dark at a brisk canter. Pompey was as anxious to
get home as was his master, and he needed no second urging.
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