She had been a good deal spoiled, and was used to having them follow her. But she felt, as she mounted, that perhaps at last she had met a man who could do a little managing himself. But she had a queer feeling of flatness after her eager talking, and it took some minutes of a brisk canter to bring her to a mood of self-possession. Dane did not seem disposed to talk any more, and they set their horses to another gallop.
When they slowed down again he began to smoke, and she ventured no more than casual remarks about men at Mac’s, hoping he would talk, and being disappointed that he did not. When they got to the ravine she supposed he would stop, but he rode on with her, letting his horse lead in the blackest part where they could not see each other or even their own hands held up before them. When they came into the light he began to talk of the sense animals had in the night, and went on to tell her tales of riding out in the great spaces of Australia. He kept the talk absolutely impersonal till they came to the borders of Dargaville. There he pulled up.
“I’ll turn back here,” he said, guiding his horse beside hers. “Thanks awfully, Miss Freedom, for dispersing the goblins.” He held out his hand.
For a moment he seemed immaterial to her, a phantom on a black horse. But there stirred about him an effulgent warmth that was anything but etherial. As she took his hot and nervous hand, she bit back a question on her lips, for she wanted it to come from him.
“I’ve had a jolly time,” she said instead. “I do hope I did not bore you.”
“You did not. Good-night.” He rode off without looking back.
She was conscious of keen disappointment as she rode on, and yet why she did not know. Had she expected
