One only hears of them now
and then. On the railway--on the sea--in the hospital--in
burning houses--in accidents of road and street--are there no
opportunities for courage? In the commonest everyday home life,
doesn't any man or woman have endless chances of being brave or a
coward? And this is civilised courage, not the fury of a bull at a
red rag."
Piers Otway had ceased to nibble his blade of grass; his eyes were
fixed on Irene. When she had made a sudden end of speaking, when she
smiled her apology for the fervour forbidden in polite converse, he
still gazed at her, self-oblivious. Helen Borisoff watched him,
askance.
"Let us go in and have some tea," she said, rising abruptly.
Soon after, March said good-bye, a definite good-bye; he was going
to another part of England. With all the grace of his caste he
withdrew from a circle, in which, temptations notwithstanding, he
had not felt quite at ease. Riding down the dale through a sunny
shower, he was refreshed and himself again.
"Where do you put up to-night?" asked Helen of Otway, turning to
him, when the other man had gone, with a brusque familiarity.
"At the inn down in Redmire."
"And what do you do to-morrow?"
"Go to see the falls at Aysgarth, for one thing. There's been rain
up on the hills; the river will be grand."
"Perhaps we shall be there."
When Piers had left them, Helen said to her friend
"I wanted to ask him to stay and dine--but I didn't know whether
you would like it.
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