the world, and sure that its purpose was an ameliorating one, if only it could be used as a beautiful spirit would use it.
The carriage had turned into one of the nondescript thoroughfares, half incipient street, half decaying lane, which dismally linked the mill-village to Hanaford. Bessy looked out on the ruts, the hoardings, the starved trees dangling their palsied leaves in the radiant October light; then she sighed: “What a good day for a gallop!”
Amherst felt a momentary chill, but the naturalness of the exclamation disarmed him, and the words called up thrilling memories of his own college days, when he had ridden his grandfather’s horses in the famous hunting valley not a hundred miles from Hanaford.
Bessy met his smile with a glow of understanding. “You like riding too, I’m sure?”
“I used to; but I haven’t been in the saddle for years. Factory managers don’t keep hunters,” he said laughing.
Her murmur of embarrassment showed that she took this as an apologetic allusion to his reduced condition, and in his haste to correct this impression he added: “If I regretted anything in my other life, it would certainly be a gallop on a day like this; but I chose my trade deliberately, and I’ve never been sorry for my choice.”
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