The ponies are fresh, and we have almost reached the gate before I speak, with a difficult hesitation.
"Algy," say I, "did you happen to notice that--that _bracelet_ ?" He does not answer.

He is looking the other way, and turns only the back of his head toward me.
"It was from Hunt and Roskell," I say.
"Oh!" "It must have--must have--_come to_ a good deal," I go on, timidly.
He has turned his face to me now.

I cannot complain, but indeed, as it now is, I prefer the back of his head, so white and headstrong does he look.
"I wish to God," he says, in a voice of low anger, "that you would be so obliging as to mind your own business, and allow me to mind mine!" "But it _is_ mine!" I cry, passionately; "what right has she to be sitting all day with young men on stools at her feet ?--she, a married woman, with her husband--" "This comes extremely well from _you_," he says, in a voice of concentrated anger, with a bitterly-sneering tone; "_how is Musgrave_ ?" Before I can answer, he has jumped out, and is half-way back to the house.

But indeed I am dumb.

Is it possible that _he_ makes such a mistake ?--that he does not see the difference?
For the next half-mile, I see neither ponies, nor misty hedges, nor wintry high-road, for tears.