He sat in his saddle and thought, while his pony
grazed by the roadside.
The whir of approaching wheels roused him. Mrs. Vansuythen was
driving home Mrs. Boulte, white and wan, with a cut on her
forehead.
'Stop, please,' said Mrs. Boulte, 'I want to speak to Ted.'
Mrs. Vansuythen obeyed, but as Mrs. Boulte leaned forward,
putting her hand upon the splashboard of the dog-cart, Kurrell
spoke.
'I've seen your husband, Mrs. Boulte.'
There was no necessity for any further explanation. The man's eyes
were fixed, not upon Mrs. Boulte, but her companion. Mrs. Boulte
saw the look.
'Speak to him!' she pleaded, turning to the woman at her side. 'Oh,
speak to him! Tell him what you told me just now. Tell him you
hate him. Tell him you hate him!'
She bent forward and wept bitterly, while the sais, impassive, went
forward to hold the horse. Mrs. Vansuythen turned scarlet and
dropped the reins. She wished to be no party to such unholy
explanations.
'I've nothing to do with it,' she began coldly; but Mrs. Boulte's sobs
overcame her, and she addressed herself to the man. 'I don't know
what I am to say, Captain Kurrell. I don't know what I can call you.
I think you've you've behaved abominably, and she has cut her
forehead terribly against the table.'
'It doesn't hurt. It isn't anything,' said Mrs. Boulte feebly.
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