ave cared?"

In the mist, she, too, had the look of one not made of flesh and blood,
but she had no likeness to some figure carved: she was the spirit of the
mist with its drops on her hair, a thing intangible, yet dowered with
power to make herself a torment. So she looked, but Halkett had felt the
touch of her, and taking her by the wrist, he dragged her upwards while
he bent down to her.

"You--you--!" he panted.

"You're hurting, George!"

"What do I care? I haven't seen you for two weeks. I've been--been
starving for you."

She spoke coolly, with a ringing quality in her tones. "You would see me
better if you didn't come so near."

Immediately he loosened her without looking at her, and she stood
chafing her hands, hating his indifference, though she knew it was
assumed, uncertain how to regain her supremacy. Then she let instinct
guide her, and she looked a little piteous.

"Don't be rough with me. I didn't mean--I don't like you to be rough
with me."

He was off his horse and standing by her at those words, and, still
watchful for rebuffs, he took her hand and stroked it gently.

"Did I hurt you, then?" he said.

"Yes. Why are you like that?" She lifted her head and gave him the oval
face, the dark, reproachful eyes like night.

"Because I'm mad for you--mad for you. Little one--you make me mad. And
you'll never marry me. I know that. And I'm a fool to let you play the
devil with me. I know that, too. A mad fool. But you--you're in my
blood."

Softly she said, "You never told me that before. You needn't scold me
so. How should I know you wanted that?"

"You knew I loved you."

"No. I knew you liked me and I hoped--"

He bent his head to listen.

"I hoped you loved me."

His words came thickly, a muddy torrent. "Then marry me, marry me,
Miriam. Marry me. I want--I can't--You must say you'll marry me."

Keeping her eyes on him, she moved slowly away, and from behind
Charlie's back she laughed with a genuine merriment that wounded
inexpressibly.

"You're funny, George," she said. "Very funny. At present I have no
intention of doing anything but riding Charlie."

Through a mist doubled and coloured by his red rage, he watched her
climb into the saddle and, before she was fairly settled in it, he gave
the horse a blow that sent him galloping indignantly out of sight.

Halkett did not care if she were thrown, for his anger and his passion
were confounded into one emotion, and he would have