o two lives? But
if she yielded at once to his wish, without a word of regret, if she
took the speedy return to London quite simply as a matter of course, he
would feel almost irresistibly inclined to take her in his arms and to
say, "No, you shall stay on at Little Cloisters. We'll manage somehow."
Perhaps he could stand three hours daily in the train. He could read
the papers. A man must do that. As well do it in the train as in an
arm-chair at home.

But at any rate he would put her to the test. On that he was resolved.

At dinner that night Rosamund told him she had already written to "dear,
kind Job Crickendon" about the pony.

"You might shoot on Monday," she said.

"Right you are. When we hear about the pony we'll tell Robin."

"Yes. Not till it's all delightfully settled. Robin on horseback!"

Her eyes shone.

"I can see him already with a gun in his hand old enough to shoot
with you," she added. "We must bring him up to be a thorough little
sportsman; like that Greek boy Dirmikis."

They talked about Robin's future till dinner was over. Dion loved their
talk, but he could not help seeing that in Rosamund's forecast town life
held no place at all. In everything, or in almost everything, that
she said the country held pride of place. There was not one word about
Jenkins's gymnasium, or the Open Air Club with its swimming facilities,
or riding in the Park, or fencing at Bernardi's. Rosamund seemed tacitly
to assume that everything which was Doric was connected with country
life.

On the following morning she hastened out "to buy riding gaiters for
Robin." She had his "size" with her.

Not a word had been said about Dion's visit to Mrs. Clarke. Rosamund's
lack of all curiosity in regard to Mrs. Clarke and himself gave him the
measure of her faith in him. Few women, he thought, would be able
to trust a man so completely. And this trust was the more remarkable
because he felt positive that Rosamund distrusted Mrs. Clarke. She had
never said so, but he considered that by her conduct she had proved her
distrust.

It was a great virtue in Rosamund, that power she had to trust where
trust was deserved.

Dear, kind Job Crickendon wrote that Master Robin could ride his pony,
Jane, and welcome. The letter arrived on Saturday. Rosamund read it
aloud to Dion.

"The people about here are the dearest people I've ever come across,"
she said. "So different from people in London."

"Why, what's the matter with p