"It was a lucky escape for her," he said, dreamily.
"It was," assented Howard, solemnly. "Not one man in a thousand can
love one woman all his life; and I've the strongest conviction that I
am not that one. In less than six months I should have grown tired of
her--in less than a year I should have flown from the joys of
matrimony--or killed the partner of those joys. Has Pottinger a wife
and family, my dear Stafford? If so, is it wise to risk his life in
this fashion? I don't care for myself--though still young, I am not
afraid to die, and I would as soon meet it hurled from a phaeton as
not--but may I beg of you to think of Pottinger?"
Stafford laughed.
"The horses are all right," he said. "They are only fresh, and want to
go."
He could not have driven slowly, for his mind, dwelling on the girl in
the well-worn habit, was electric.
"I have spared you, hitherto, any laudation of the scenery, my dear
Staff," said Howard, pleasantly, "but permit me to remark that it
really is very beautiful. Trust the great and powerful Sir Stephen to
choose the best nature and art can produce! What is this?"
"This" proved to be a newly built lodge which appeared on the left of
the road.
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