sworn was Lennan.  Not likely for an artist chap to be down here!  But it was undoubtedly young Lennan, brushed-up, in a top-hat.  Fortunately, however, his face was not turned in their direction.  He said nothing to Olive, not wishing—­especially after those unpleasant thoughts—­to take responsibility, and he kept her moving towards the gate, congratulating himself that his eyes had been so sharp.  In the crush there he was separated from her a little, but she was soon beside him again; and more than ever he congratulated himself that nothing had occurred to upset her and spoil the day.  Her cheeks were warm enough now, her dark eyes glowing.  She was excited no doubt by thoughts of the race, and of the ‘tenner’ he was going to put on for her.

He recounted the matter afterwards to Mrs. Ercott.  “That chestnut Tabor put me on to finished nowhere—­couldn’t get down the hill—­ knew it wouldn’t the moment I set eyes on it.  But the child enjoyed herself.  Wish you’d been there, my dear!” Of his deeper thoughts and of that glimpse of young Lennan he did not speak, for on the way home an ugly suspicion had attacked him.  Had the young fellow, after all, seen and managed to get close to her in the crush at the paddock gateway?

XIV

That letter of hers fanned the flame in Lennan as nothing had yet fanned it.  Earthiness!  Was it earthiness to love as he did?  If so, then not for all the world would he be otherwise than earthy.  In the shock of reading it, he crossed his Rubicon, and burned his boats behind him.  No more did the pale ghost, chivalrous devotion, haunt him.  He knew now that he could not stop short.  Since she asked him, he must not, of course, try to see her just yet.  But when he did, then he would fight for his life; the thought that she might be meaning to slip away from him was too utterly unbearable.  But she could not be meaning that!  She would never be so cruel!  Ah! she would—­she must come to him in the end!  The world, life itself, would be well lost for love of her!

Thus resolved, he was even able to work again; and all that Tuesday he modelled at a big version of the fantastic, bull-like figure he had conceived after the Colonel left him up on the hillside at Beaulieu.  He worked at it with a sort of evil joy.  Into this creature he would put the spirit of possession that held her from him.  And while his fingers forced the clay, he felt as if he had Cramier’s neck within his grip.  Yet, now that he had resolved to take her if he could, he had not quite the same hatred.  After all, this man loved her too, could not help it that she loathed him; could not help it that he had the disposition of her, body and soul!

June had come in with skies of a blue that not even London glare and dust could pale.  In every square and park and patch of green the air simmered with life and with the music of birds swaying on little boughs.  Piano organs in the streets were no longer wistful for the South; lovers already sat in the shade of trees.