They walked in silence. He was an imaginative young man. Mr. He was plainly attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by his side. Each became frightfully aware of the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek, of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. Most of my successes in life have been made with a sort of reckless vigor. . The tropical dawn is swift. .
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