Linda had said she did not love David that way! Bab's mind still clung to that speech, wrestling with it dully. Five o'clock had struck from the spire of Eastbourne church as the pony cart, with a smart cob clinking in the shafts, drifted along a shady byway in the Beeston woods. They were the same woods in which Bab had spent that first morning at Byewolde with David, but she was alone now. There was not even a groom beside her on the seat of the Hempstead cart in which she was jogging along.

She had wanted to be alone. Ever since that moment when Linda had uttered those memorable words Bab had felt she must get off by herself and think things over. Then, too, Linda had said Varick was to visit Eastbourne. He was to spend the week-end at the Blairs' place near by. As the clock in the church tower struck, Bab mechanically counted the strokes. Five! He must be there now!

In view of Bab's firm resolve to marry David, her reflections concerning Varick seemed rather disconcerting. Varick, she'd told herself, had gone out of her life. She was done with him. But Bab somehow had not foreseen that Varick, like a ghost, would not down. She had not reflected that his life and hers must of a necessity cross continually. Left to herself, to the resolve she had made, she could have married David with perhaps no more than a qualm or so. She loved him, she knew. She might not love him, perhaps, as a wife should love her husband, but then what matter was that? Round her in the life she now was leading, countless women were married with much less right. They did not love at all. It was for convenience they married—for place, for power. Rarely, it seemed to her, did they marry just for love. And the marriages, after all, did not turn out so badly. Some of the women—quite a few, in fact—even learned to love their men. Of course a good many didn't, but then why dwell on that? She already loved David as a companion; in time she might learn to love him in another way. Probably she would.

The cob, hacking along at his own free will, now all at once pricked up his ears. Over the treetops from the near-by side of the wood the breeze brought a quick burst of sound. Bab heard it dully. It was a hunt day at the country club, the season's last, and the hounds were out. Clucking aimlessly to the cob, she again plunged into her reverie.

The scene with Linda the day before had helped to clarify Bab's impressions. She began now to see things in their actual light. She saw even the truth concerning herself and Varick. What if he had sought to marry her once he learned she had money? He loved her, didn't he? She knew he did. She knew, too, he would marry no one he did not love, no matter how much money they had. Then in the midst of this reflection, her mind in its ferment going over and over it again, a new realization came to her. Of her love for Varick there could be no question! She knew how she loved him, this man who had gone out of her life. She loved him as she wished to God she could love David, the man she was going to marry. But she had given her promise to David, and she could not break it.

The cob again pricked up his ears. Bab aimlessly fingering the lines, felt him bear all at once against the bit. Just then in an open field beside the wood the hounds swept past in full cry.

"Steady, boy!"

Full of life, vigorously skittish, the cob had begun to prance. Bab pulled it down to its four feet presently, and sat waiting for the chase to go on. Hard after the racing hounds came the vanguard of the field, the riders who followed, three men and a girl out far ahead. The men were strangers, but the girl Bab knew. She was the daughter of one of the Beestons' neighbors, an elfish, harum-scarum creature, whose chief delight seemed to be a reckless disregard of life and limb—her own, however. Perched on a big, raw-boned roan thoroughbred she took the in-and-out, the jump into the road and over into the field beyond with the aplomb of a veteran. The next instant she was gone, flashing out of view.

Bab was still gazing after her when there was a crash and crackling of brush close beside her. A fourth rider, topping the roadside fence, flew into view. His horse instantly she recognized. It was one from the Blairs' stable, a thoroughbred that Bab often had seen Linda riding. The next instant she had recognized its rider. It was Varick!

Bab's heart beneath her trim linen jacket gave a thump, and she sat staring at him in wonder. The color, a moment later, poured into her face. Already, before he saw her, Varick's mount had bucked into the road and, crossing it at a stride, was gathering himself to take the fence beyond. Varick pulled him up sharply. The horse, his eyes rolling with excitement, fought at the bit, and for a moment his rider had difficulty in getting him in hand. Then, quivering, the animal trotted toward the cart.

"Hello!" Varick hailed cheerfully. "I didn't expect to see you." Sliding from the saddle, he slipped the reins over his arm. "Nice to see you, Bab," and he held out a hand to her.

She had never before seen him in riding things. The things themselves she had seen, and she remembered them, the boots especially. Slim and slender, neat on their wooden trees, they'd stood in a corner of his room at Mrs. Tilney's. What visions they'd created. And now in the boots, in his smart, well-cut riding clothes, how well he looked, how pleasant, smiling and well-bred! In contrast Bab felt herself gauche and uncomfortable. It did not make it any easier for her that he seemed in no way awkward or constrained. He stood beside the cart looking up at her, and with an effort Bab murmured a response to his greeting. As she finished, her air confused, he smiled faintly.

"I've been hearing about you," he announced.

Hearing about her? Bab sharply pulled herself together. In Varick's tone was something more than the mere raillery the speech conveyed. She thought, too, she knew where it was he had been hearing of her.

"I dare say," returned Bab; "you're at Linda Blair's."

The subtle innuendo of this he did not seem to heed. A quick light came into his eyes.

"Linda told you I was coming, did she?" He smiled brightly. "Linda's a dear, isn't she?" he exclaimed.

Bab long had heard of Varick's friendliness with Linda. His admiration of her, too, was evident. It was not from Linda, though, that Varick had heard of Bab. Of that his next speech assured her.

"Where's the happy man, Bab? I heard the news at the country club, you know. Why are you alone?"

The happy man—and Varick had heard the news! Speech for the moment left her. That day her engagement had been announced. David, deciding to wait no more, had given the news to his intimates. Tomorrow every newspaper in the city would have it. What should she say to Varick now in answer to his question? Was she to tell him that the happy man she had left at home? Was she to tell him, too, why she had left him there? The fact that David was announcing the engagement had caused her to seek solitude. She wanted time. She needed the opportunity to face herself before she must face Beeston, Miss Elvira and, last of all, David's parents. Yes, but what about Varick? She had not dreamed of facing him!

The night of her dance—that moment when first she had told him of the promise she'd given David—the revelation had not been nearly so trying. Emotion had dulled her. She had been excited, overwrought, the pang of it had been blunted. She had found no time to ruminate, to taste its bitterness. Now, however, in the cold, everyday light of the fact as it was, as it ever would be, there was no soothing opiate of emotion to dull the pain. She had indeed not counted on facing him. She would almost rather have faced the truth itself. Varick all the time was looking at her.

"Bab," he asked, "tell me just one thing. Are you happy?"

Her eyes drifted hazily away. Happy? The word somehow seemed an affront. Why was it that happiness had always to be dragged in? Linda had asked would David be happy? Here Varick was asking would Bab herself be happy? Why must everything so depend on her? She wished devoutly she could for once be freed of the responsibility. If only things could be made happy for her!

"Won't you answer?" asked Varick.

She had sat looking at him in silence. Of the storm, the ferment that was seething in her mind, Varick had no hint. Her face was set. Outwardly, with her lips tightly compressed, her mouth rigid, she looked reserved, affronted, if anything, at what he asked. The question was not one that could lightly be asked of any woman, least of all a woman who had just promised herself. Varick saw her eyes, as he thought, harden. Then she looked away. He did not know, however, that why she did so was that of a sudden the eyes had clouded mistily. Their mistiness she would not have him see. But he was not dissuaded. As he gazed at her Varick's own face grew set.

"Look at me, Bab! Be angry if you like, but you've got to answer. If you're happy, say so, and I won't bother you. But I want you to tell me."

Reaching up, he took in his the small gloved hand that clung to the rail of the Hempstead cart. She made no effort to release it. They were quite alone. The hunt, swinging westward over the open fields, had carried with it the first of the field; the others, with the onlookers following in traps and motors, had streamed away down a near-by road. Round these two was the wood, its leafy walls a haven of cloistered, quiet privacy.

"I want you to tell me, little girl," said Varick. His hold on the hand under his tightened reassuringly. "I just want to be sure you're glad, contented. If you are, then it's all right; I won't say a word. If you're not glad, though, not happy, then I want to help you. Don't you understand, Bab?" She still did not reply, but sat perched on the cart's high pad staring straight ahead of her. The effort to answer him was beyond her. Then for the first time he seemed to see her misery.

"Why, Bab!" he cried.

His air changed instantly, awakening to quick activity. He bade her sit as she was and, flinging the reins of his mount over a fence post handy, he took the cob by the bit. The cart he turned in the road. This accomplished, he returned to the tethered thoroughbred and, gathering the reins in hand, climbed into the saddle.

"Drive along, Bab," he directed; "I'll follow."

There was another byroad, a turn-off from the main drive, a short way beyond; and there, as if of his own accord, the cob swung on. Tunneled in that aisle of greenery Varick and Bab were alone, alone indeed. Reaching over as his mount cantered on beside the cob, he touched the hand that held the reins.

"Pull up, Bab," he said, adding then: "You must not feel like that. Now tell me what's wrong." Her mouth was quivering. She had been sitting there all the time with the tears brimming in her eyes. "You know," Varick added quietly, "I want to help you."

That fixed it.

"Oh, Bayard, Bayard!" cried Bab brokenly. He did not speak, but he again slipped from the saddle and, with the reins looped over his arm, came and stood beside the wheel.

"How can I tell you!" she went on. "The other night, the time when you danced with me, I knew what I ought to do, but I couldn't. It was all so strange, all so sudden. I'd been blinded by it. All the new life I'd lived, that and all it had brought me, seemed to have blurred everything. It wasn't just what they'd said to me that made me turn from you; all along, from the very first, from the time at Mrs. Tilney's, I'd felt you didn't think I was as good as you were. When the money came I thought it would change things. Then the more I thought the more I knew it wouldn't. I was still as I'd always been; if you married me I'd still be the same. And then my grandfather told me it would be like you to want to marry me now, to want me for my—my money. And David didn't. He wanted me for myself, just that. I could be sure of that; he'd have his own money, you know. He'll be as rich as I'll be some day."

"As rich as you'll be, Bab?"

"Yes," Bab answered—"when grandfather dies, that is."

Varick dared not meet her eyes. In his heart he could have wept for her. Presently his glance returned to her.

"Then it wasn't just David's money, David's position, that tempted you? That's not why you took him, is it?"

"David's money—tempt me?" Her astonishment was genuine. "Why should it?"

Varick did not pursue the question. Again he laid his hand on hers, and again she let it lie there.

"Some day you'll understand," he said quietly; "you'll see, too, that neither has your money made any difference with me."

Bab's voice at this broke again She knew now, she protested, that it hadn't. It made Varick smile whimsically to hear her.

"And you don't think me dreadful?" she pleaded.

"Dreadful?" He laughed. "Of course not!"

"You said you'd help me. Bayard, what am I to do?"

Varick was still smiling. In the smile, though, was now nothing whimsical.

"I don't know, Bab."

"You don't know!" Varick slowly shook his head. "Do you mean that?" asked Bab, her eyes wondering.

He stirred uncomfortably.

"I'm afraid so. Don't you see you're the one who must help yourself there? I can't decide that for you; it wouldn't be right."

Her wonder grew. What wouldn't be right? Hadn't he voluntarily offered to help her?

"You don't understand," said Varick; "I'll help you any way I can, Bab, but not that way. I can't tell you whether you must marry David. Your conscience will have to decide that. It's hardly right for me even to comfort you. Can't you see it?"

"Don't you love me?" she asked slowly. "Is that it?"

Varick smiled anew.

"You know I do," he answered. "But if you'd think, you'd see, too, I have no right even to tell you that."

The fine ethics of this, however, Bab was in no mood to comprehend. Love is woman's one fierce, common right. She wages it as man wages war—instinctively. And as in war, in love—as she often sees it—all things are fair.

"It's just this, Bab," said Varick; "you've given your word to David Lloyd. You're his woman, the one he's going to marry. With that promise still standing, you're as much his as if you were his wife. I can't tell you anything, Bab; I mustn't even tell you that I love you." Trying to keep his feelings from showing in his face, he fastened his eyes on hers. "I was a friend of his once. I can't stab him in the back like that. If you love him, Bab, marry him. If you don't, then decide whatever way you can. But don't ask me to decide for you. I can't! I never can!"

"You mean that you won't?"

"I'm afraid so," he responded gently.

"You won't help me at all?"

"Not that way, Bab. It's a question I wouldn't help any woman decide. What's more, I'd not marry a woman who wouldn't or who couldn't decide it for herself. If you love David Lloyd, your course lies open. If you don't love him, it lies equally open. You'll have to do the choosing."

He released the hand he held in his and began fumbling with the reins looped across his arm. The thoroughbred, busily cropping the roadside grass, lifted its shapely head, its muzzle nuzzling Varick's shoulder. Varick's lips were firmly pressed together. He did not look at Bab. "I must be going; we can't stay on here," he murmured. "Shall I see you again?"

With what composure she could command she turned toward him. Inwardly now the turmoil of her emotions rose to concert pitch. Of its fierceness, however, evidently he saw nothing. Bab's eyes again had in them that look of hardness that had been there at first. "Good-by," she said methodically. She did not bother to say whether they should meet or not. She felt within her shame a fierce self-condemnation. The fact she did not blink—she had flung herself at Varick's head, and Varick virtually had refused her! She had cheapened herself! With a fierce struggle to hold back the flood of tears, the hurt that flung its signals in her eyes, she gathered up the reins, then spoke to the waiting cob. The cart rolled swiftly up the road. Speeding along, it turned a bend in the wood's tunneled greenery. Behind it in the road the thoroughbred and its rider were left standing.

But had Bab looked back before it was too late she would have seen something that perhaps would have stilled the tempest of resentment, of bitter hurt, that raged within her. Varick still stood there in the road, the reins dangling from his hand, looking after her. Then, when he could no longer see the slim figure perched swaying in the high cart, his eyes dropped, and he stood on, his shoulders drooping, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Forgotten, the thoroughbred once more fell to cropping the grass.

"Poor little girl!" whispered Varick. "My poor, poor little Bab!"

It was long after six when the cob, its flanks white with lather, came stepping swiftly up the drive to the portico at Byewolde. A groom from the stable was waiting. He gave one look at the horse, then glanced sideways at his mistress. Ordinarily she was not one to push an animal to its limit. But Bab gave no heed. Her bedroom was where she longed to be. Above all she wished to get there before any of the household should see her. The fates willed otherwise, it seemed.

"Begging pardon, please," said Crabbe as he opened the door for her; "Mrs. Lloyd will be in your sitting-room. She'll wish to see you."

Bab's heart clanged with sudden apprehension.

"Mrs. Lloyd?"

"Yes, miss; she's been waiting above an hour now. She said you were please to go to her immediately."

Bab slowly made her way up the stairs. It was the engagement, of course, that had brought Mrs. Lloyd hurrying to Byewolde. She had heard the announcement that afternoon. Bab opened the sitting-room door and stepped inside. Not above five minutes later the door again opened and Mrs. Lloyd emerged. She came quietly, discreetly, as if not to disturb others in that household. Her pale, usually expressionless face was lighted now with an ironic smile. She had just seen Bab. And, from A to izzard, she had divulged to her the story of Mr. Mapleson's forgery.