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They both turned towards the intemperate sunlight and the great hill. The hollowness of life as they lived it came home to them with an aching force. Yet she lifted her fan from the table and fanned herself gently with it, and he mechanically lit a cigar. Servants passed in and out removing the things from the table. Presently they were left alone. The heavy breath of the palm trees floated in upon them; the fruit of the passion-flower hung temptingly at the window; they could hear the sound of a torrent just behind the house. The day was droning luxuriously, yet the eyes of both, as by some weird influence, were fastened upon the hill; and presently they saw, at the highest point where the road was visible, a horseman. He came slowly down until he reached the spot where the road was barricaded from the platform of the cliff. Here he paused. He sat long, looking, as it appeared, down into the valley. The husband rose and took down a field-glass from a shelf; he levelled it at the figure.

“Strange, strange,” he said to himself; “he seems familiar, and yet–“

She rose and reached out her hand for the glass. He gave it to her. She raised it to her eyes, but, at that moment, the horseman swerved into the road again, and was lost to view. Suddenly Houghton started; an enigmatical smile passed across his face.

“Alice,” said he, “did you mean what you said about the steeplechase–I mean about the ride down the White Bluff road?”

“I meant all I said,” was her bitter reply.

“You think life is a mistake?” he rejoined.

“I think we have made a mistake,” was her answer; “a deadly mistake, and it lasts all our lives.”

He walked to the door, trained the glass again on the hill, then afterwards turned round, and said:

“If ever you think of riding the White Bluff road–straight for the cliff itself and over–tell me, and I’ll ride it with you. If it’s all wrong as it is, it’s all wrong for both, and, maybe, the worst of what comes after is better than the worst of what is here.”

They had been frank with each other in the past, but never so frank as this. He was determined that they should be still more frank; and so was she. “Alice,” he said–

“Wait a minute,” she interjected. “I have something to say, Tom. I never told you–indeed, I thought I never should tell you; but now I think it’s best to do so. I loved a man once–with all my soul.”

“You love him still,” was the reply; and he screwed and unscrewed the field-glass in his hand, looking bluntly at her the while. She nodded, returning his gaze most earnestly and choking back a sob.

“Well, it’s a pity, it’s a pity,” he replied. “We oughtn’t to live together as it is. It’s all wrong; it’s wicked–I can see that now.”

“You are not angry with me?” she answered in surprise.

“You can’t help it, I suppose,” he answered drearily.

“Do you really mean,” she breathlessly said, “that we might as well die together, since we can’t live together and be happy?”

“There’s nothing in life that gives me a pleasant taste in the mouth, so what’s the good? Mind you, my girl, I think it a terrible pity that you should have the thought to die; and if you could be happy living, I’d die myself to save you. But can you? That’s the question–can you be happy, even if I went and you stayed?”

“I don’t think so,” she said thoughtfully, and without excitement.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“The man’s name was Cayley–Cayley,” he said to her bluntly.

“How did you know?” she asked, astonished. “You never saw him.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve seen him,” was the reply–“seen him often. I knew him once.”

“I do not understand you,” she rejoined.

“I knew it all along,” he continued, “and I’ve waited for you to tell me.”