She had often regretted her own disbelief and once more felt the need for reparation.
"Lance," she said, very quietly, "my aunt was wiser than I was, but she was mistaken.

What she gave you out of her wide charity was already yours by right." That was complete and final, for Maud Barrington did nothing by half, and Winston recognized that she held him blameless in the past, which she could not know, as well as in the present, which was visible to her.

Her confidence stung him as a whip, and when in place of answering he looked away, the girl fancied that a smothered groan escaped him.

She waited, curiously expectant, but he did not speak, and just then the fall of hoofs rose from behind the birches in the bluff.

Then a man's voice came through it singing a little French song, and Maud Barrington glanced at her companion.
"Lance," she said, "how long is it since you sang that song ?" "Well," said Winston, doggedly conscious of what he was doing, "I do not know a word of it, and never heard it in my life." Maud Barrington stared at him.