He was thinking of the girl he had watched riding off on the unbroken colt; of what it would seem like if she were seated opposite him, with the candle-light falling on her soft white dress, with diamonds gleaming in it, diamonds outshone by the splendour of those dark, violet-grey eyes; of what it would seem like if he could rise from his seat and go to her and take her in his arms and look into those dark grey eyes, and say, "You are mine, mine!" with no one to say him nay.
"It was a lucky escape for her," he said, dreamily.
"It was," assented Howard, solemnly.

"Not one man in a thousand can love one woman all his life; and I've the strongest conviction that I am not that one.

In less than six months I should have grown tired of her--in less than a year I should have flown from the joys of matrimony--or killed the partner of those joys.

Has Pottinger a wife and family, my dear Stafford?
If so, is it wise to risk his life in this fashion?
I don't care for myself--though still young, I am not afraid to die, and I would as soon meet it hurled from a phaeton as not--but may I beg of you to think of Pottinger ?" Stafford laughed.
"The horses are all right," he said.

"They are only fresh, and want to go." He could not have driven slowly, for his mind, dwelling on the girl in the well-worn habit, was electric.
"I have spared you, hitherto, any laudation of the scenery, my dear Staff," said Howard, pleasantly, "but permit me to remark that it really is very beautiful.