Franklyn-Haldene, or any of those women who get together to tear
somebody apart. As if Warrington could compare with her big, handsome,
manly brother! It was all impossible. She would punish herself for
even entertaining such a thought as had been hers but a moment gone.
She stole a glance at Warrington. He was riding easily, his feet light
in the stirrups, his head thrown back, his eyes half closed, and was
breathing deeply of the cool air, which was heavy with the smell of
sweet clover and dew-wet earth. It was a good, clean, honest face.
Indeed, it was all impossible. Dissipation writes plainly upon the
human countenance, and it had left no visible sign on Warrington's
face. It may be that dissipation sometimes whimsically neglects to
write at all.
They thundered over a wooden bridge. The spirit of the morning was in
the horses; they began to race. An unexpected curve in the road
discovered a road-builder and his gang of Italians. A low barrier ran
across the road. It was not exactly needed, as they were not digging,
but laying crushed stone. The obstruction was simply for the
convenience of the boss, who desired to work unhampered.
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