The thought of their rides in the radiant Christmas sunshine at Cannes came back upon her with a rush.

They had been one continuous excitement, simply because it was Falloden who rode beside her--Falloden, who after their merry dismounted lunch under the pines, had swung her to her saddle again--her little foot in his strong hand--so easily and powerfully.

It was Falloden who, when she and two or three others of the party found themselves by mistake on a dangerous bridle-path, on the very edge of a steep ravine in the Esterels, and her horse had become suddenly restive, had thrown himself off his own mount, and passing between her horse and the precipice, where any sudden movement of the frightened beast would have sent him to his death, had seized the bridle and led her into safety.

And yet all the time, she had disliked him almost as much as she had been drawn to him.

None of the many signs of his autocratic and imperious temper had escaped her, and the pride in her had clashed against the pride in him.