LOUIS CAREW, watching Winslow ride off with his daughter, had a humorous sense of his own inadequacy to meet the situation. Why hadn't he told Neale if he had anything to talk over to do it here? Why such secrecy about his affairs with Sally? And why bring Hildegarde into it?
But Neale was Neale. When he wanted his way, he got it. Carew, shrugging his shoulders, rose and walked down to the garden. He sat for a long time on the stone bench, the smoke from his cigar mingling with the scent of the few late roses. It was an enchanting night. He remembered another night under a hunter's moon. Elizabeth had sat beside him on the stone bench and he had spoken of the effect of this strange and spectral light. "There's no other moon like it. I've followed a fox under it, with a feeling that all the time the scene wasn't real. It is almost uncanny, the sense it gives of doing things in a dream."
She had asked about the fox-hunt, and he had described it. "All that seems a bit cruel, doesn't it?" she had said.
"There's the sport."
"Not for the poor little fox."
He had kissed her and had loved her for her tender-heartedness. Women should be like that. Yes, she
