It could matter to no one.
Some snaring, entangling instinct--an instinct of the hunter--made her persist.

She must have it.

It was a point of honour.

"Poor Theresa is so unhappy, so pursued! You saw that odious paragraph last week?
I can't run the risk!" With a groan of annoyance, he promised at last that he would look again.
Then the sparkling eyes changed, the voice softened.
She praised--she rewarded him.

By smooth transitions she slipped into ordinary talk; of his candidature for the County Council--the points of the great horse he rode--the gossip of the neighbourhood--the charms of Beatty.
And on this last topic he, too, suddenly found his tongue.