er heart.

"Oh, to be young! To be young,--and to be loved!"

Peignton struggled into his coat, and muttered savagely when a stud
caught in the lining. His usual mood was so serene that this sudden
irritability and depression was as puzzling as it was disagreeable. He
asked himself curtly what the devil was wrong, and made a swift mental
summary of the wine consumed at dinner. Nothing wrong, but these
elaborate feasts were not in his line. They bored him stiff. Another
time he would decline...

At this point Teresa made her appearance wrapped in a white opera cloak,
with her mother's best lace scarf draped over her head, and Dane's
depression lightened, as he smiled at her and took his place by her side
in the car. He felt a pleasant sense of intimacy as the door shut, and
they were alone together speeding through the darkened park. He had
been thinking a good deal of marriage lately, more than he had ever done
before, but he did not realise that at the same time he had been
thinking less of Teresa. He thought of her now, warmed by her presence,
and by the natural rebound from his fit of irritation. She looked
pretty in that white kit,--that lace over her face was uncommonly
becoming. He had divined the difficulty of her position during the
evening, pitchforked among a number of people who as a rule ignored her
existence, and he had admired the quiet composure of her manner. A nice
little girl. A dear little girl. A pretty, clever, uncommonly sensible
little girl.

Teresa looked up, met the approval in his eyes, and thrilled with
happiness. The evening had come as an unexpected and golden ending to a
long dull day. At tea-time she had been dismally counting over the days
which had elapsed since her last sight of Peignton, dismally realising
that no mutual engagements lay ahead, and then suddenly the summons had
arrived which had placed her by his side during the length of that long
dinner, and, best of all, ensured this _tete-a-tete_ drive in the
friendly dimness. Surely now--if he cared at all, he would open his
heart--

But Peignton was far from such an intention; he was opening his lips to
make some casual remark, half-bantering, half-caressing, as had grown to
be his habit when with Teresa, when there suddenly came about one of
those small happenings which are monumental in their effect on life.
The chauffeur, steering out of the lodge gate, took a sharp turn, and
the inner wheels of the car d