Part 44 (1/2)

”You are a very vulgar woman,” exclaimed Eleanor. ”I hope I shall never see you again.”

”Don't use that word 'vulgar,'” she replies, ”it's so low cla.s.s.”

”You don't mind what you say to me because I am alone and unprotected,”

cries Eleanor with almost childish petulance, the tears glistening in her angry eyes. ”If Carol was here, he would defend me.”

”Carol,” she laughs, ”who is the staunch and gallant Carol?”

But Eleanor will not answer; she feels desperately affronted, and turns away.

The women walk in opposite directions; the day is dying.

”Well! you are back safely; any adventures?” asks Quinton, as she enters the house pale and weary.

Eleanor sinks into a chair, slowly unwinds her veil, and flings her hat impatiently upon the sofa. She is so seriously put out, that for the moment she dares not trust herself to speak.

”Anything the matter, eh?”

Eleanor clears her throat.

”Yes.”

Quinton sits bolt upright from his lounging att.i.tude.

”What?” he says, staring at her intently.

Then she recounts her scene with Paulina, word for word, while Quinton listens breathlessly.

”Her horse _shot from under her_?” he cries, as if that is of far more importance than Eleanor's narrow escape.

”Yes, dear, wasn't it awful? It might have been you or me! I do believe the masked man is on the warpath, only he went for _her_ this time instead. It may be a lunatic, for every act seems so perfectly motiveless.”

”I told you not to venture out,” he says, his face reddening with annoyance. ”You _would_ go against my wishes, and suffered for it accordingly. The idea of getting into conversation, and actually deigning to quarrel with a stranger. It was most humiliating and lowering. Another time if you meet this 'Paulina,' as you call the white Amazon, kindly avoid her. This merely confirms me in the conviction which has grown upon me lately, that this place is no longer fit for us to dwell in. I, for one, am sick of it, and long for a taste of clubdom and life again.”

”Oh! Carol!” she exclaims, and the words are wrung from her like a sharp cry.

”Don't look so absurdly miserable, my dear,” he says hastily, dreading a scene with all the shrinking of his cowardly nature. ”I won't say anything to vex you again. I was only cross; forgive me.”

Eleanor's heart goes out to him with all the old yearning tenderness.

Forgive him! Why, she would forgive Carol anything--he is her all.

She falls on her knees at his side, and draws down his face for a kiss.

As she does so, the sound of a loud, rich, stirring voice, swelling out on the evening air, reaches them. They exchange hurried glances, start to their feet, and look cautiously out.

It is ”Paulina,” swaggering down the hill with a devil-may-care mien, her gun still over her shoulder, her hands in her pockets.

They catch the words, which ring full and clear: