you were going to marry; but
there was not love both sides."

While they had been talking thus, Houghton had, of purpose, led his
companion far into the shade of the palms. He now wheeled upon Cayley,
and said sternly: "I warn you to speak with less insolence; we had
better talk simply."

Cayley was perfectly cool. "We will talk simply. As I said, you had
marriage without love. The woman loved another man. That other man loved
the woman--that good woman. In youthful days at college he had married,
neither wisely nor well, a beggar-maid without those virtues usually
credited to beggar-maidens who marry gentlemen. Well, Houghton, the
beggar-maid was supposed to have died. She hadn't died; she had shammed.
Meanwhile, between her death and her resurrection, the man came to love
that good woman. And so, lines got crossed; things went wrong. Houghton,
I loved Alice before she was your wife. I should have married her but
for the beggar-maid."

"You left her without telling her why."

"I told her that things must end, and I went away."

"Like a coward," rejoined Houghton. "You should have told her all."

"What difference has it made?" asked Cayley gloomily.

"My happiness and hers. If you had told her all, there had been an end
of mystery. Mystery is dear to a woman's heart. She was not different in
that respect from others. You took the surest way to be remembered."

Cayley's fingers played with his horse's mane; his eyes ran over the
ground debatingly; then he lifted them suddenly, and said: "Houghton,
you are remarkably frank with me; what do you mean by it?"

"I'll tell you if you will answer me this question: Why have you come
here?"

The eyes of both men crossed like swords, played with each other for
a moment, and then fixed to absolute determination. Cayley answered
doggedly: "I came to see your wife, because I'm not likely ever to see
her or you again. I wanted one look of her before I went away. There,
I'm open with you."

"It is well to be open with me," Houghton replied. He drew Cayley aside
to an opening in the trees, where the mountain and the White Bluff road
could be seen, and pointed. "That would make a wonderful leap," he said,
"from the top of the hill down to the cliff edge--and over!"

"A dreadful steeplechase," said Cayley.

Houghton lowered his voice. "Two people have agreed to take that fence."

Cayley frowned. "What two people?"

"My wife and I."

"Why?"

"Because there has been a