“No, by God!” he said.  “If she thinks of me at all it shall be as a man.  No, by God, I will not sink to that!”

. . . . .

A moving touch of colour caught his eye.  It was the rose of a parasol seen above the laurel hedge, as someone turned into the walk.  He knew the colour of it and expected to see other parasols and hear voices.  But there was no sound, and unaccompanied, the wonderful rose-thing moved towards him.

“The usual things are happening to me,” was his thought as it advanced.  “I am hot and cold, and just now my heart leaped like a rabbit.  It would be wise to walk off, but I shall not do it.  I shall stay here, because I am no longer a reasoning being.  I suppose that a horse who refuses to back out of his stall when his stable is on fire feels something of the same thing.”

When she saw him she made an involuntary-looking pause, and then recovering herself, came forward.

“I seem to have come in search of you,” she said.  “You ought to be showing someone the view really—­and so ought I.”

“Shall we show it to each other?” was his reply.

“Yes.”  And she sat down on the stone seat which had been placed for the comfort of view lovers.  “I am a little tired—­just enough to feel that to slink away for a moment alone would be agreeable.  It is slinking to leave Rosalie to battle with half the county.  But I shall only stay a few minutes.”

She sat still and gazed at the beautiful lands spread before her, but there was no stillness in her mind, neither was there stillness in his.  He did not look at the view, but at her, and he was asking himself what he should be saying to her if he were such a man as Westholt.  Though he had boldness enough, he knew that no man—­even though he is free to speak the best and most passionate thoughts of his soul—­could be sure that he would gain what he desired.  The good fortune of Westholt, or of any other, could but give him one man’s fair chance.

But having that chance, he knew he should not relinquish it soon.  There swept back into his mind the story of the marriage of his ancestor, Red Godwyn, and he laughed low in spite of himself.

Miss Vanderpoel looked up at him quickly.

“Please tell me about it, if it is very amusing,” she said.

“I wonder if it will amuse you,” was his answer.  “Do you like savage romance?”

“Very much.”

It might seem a propos de rien, but he did not care in the least.  He wanted to hear what she would say.

“An ancestor of mine—­a certain Red Godwyn—­was a barbarian immensely to my taste.  He became enamoured of rumours of the beauty of the daughter and heiress of his bitterest enemy.  In his day, when one wanted a thing, one rode forth with axe and spear to fight for it.”

“A simple and alluring method,” commented Betty.  “What was her name?”