A faint, vaporous mist obscured the horizon and floated in
tangled wreaths upon the face of the sea. Only that line of
sand seemed still clear-cut and distinct, and as she glanced along
it her eyes were held by something approaching, something which
seemed at first nothing but a black, moving speck, then gradually
resolved itself into the semblance of a man on horseback, galloping
furiously. She watched him as he drew nearer and nearer, the sand
flying from his horse's hoofs, his figure motionless, his eyes
apparently fixed upon some distant spot. It was not until he had
come within fifty yards of her that she recognised him. His horse
shied at the sight of her and was suddenly swung round with a
powerful wrist. Little specks of sand, churned up in the momentary
stampede of hoofs, fell upon her skirt. For the rest, she watched
the struggle composedly, a struggle which was over almost as soon
as it was begun. Captain Griffiths leaned down from his trembling
but subdued horse.
"Lady Cranston!" he exclaimed in astonishment.
"That's me," she replied, smiling up at him. "Have you been riding
off your bad temper?"
He glanced down at his horse's quivering sides. Back as far as one
could see there was that regular line of hoof marks.
"Am I bad-tempered?" he asked.
"Well," she observed, "I don't know you well enough to answer that
question.
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