Now as always they understood each other at a word; there was between them the freemasonry of persons sprung from the same world and the same tradition; his daily talk with Daphne had never this easy, slipping pleasure.

Meanwhile the horses sauntered on, unconsciously held back; and the magical autumn wood, its lights and lines and odours, played upon their senses.
At last Roger with a start perceived a gate in front.

He looked at his watch, and she saw him redden.
"We shall be late for the meet." His eyes avoided hers.

He gathered up the reins, evidently conscious.
Smiling, she let him open the gate for her, and then as they passed into the road, shadowed with over-arching trees, she reined in Whitefoot, and bending forward, held out her hand.

"Good-bye!" "You're not coming ?" "I think I've had enough.