She made a little salute with her riding-whip--gracious, quite free of mockery.
"The fortune of war, Mr. Renault," she said. "Salute to the conqueror!"
"Only a gallant enemy admits as much," I answered, flushing.
"Mr. Renault, am I your enemy?"
"Elsin, I fear you are."
"Why? Because you waked me from my dream?"
"What dream? That nightmare tenanted by Walter Butler that haunted you? Is it not fortunate that you awoke in time, even if you had loved him? But you never did!"
"No, I never loved him. But that was not the dream you waked me from."
"More than that, child, you do not know what love means. How should you know? Why, even I do not know, and I am twenty-three."
"Once," she said, smiling, "I told you that there is no happiness in love. It is the truth, Mr. Renault; there is no joy in it. That much I know of love. Now, sir, as you admit you know nothing of it, you can not contradict me, can you?"
She smiled gaily, leaning forward in her saddle, stroking her horse's mane.
"No, I am not your enemy," she continued. "There is enough of war in the world, is there not, Mr. Renault? And I shall soon be on my way to Canada. Were I your enemy, how impotent am I to compass your destruction--impotent as a love-sick maid who chooses as her gallant a gentleman most agreeable, gently bred, faultless in conduct and address, upon whose highly polished presence she gazes, seeking depth, and finds but her own silly face mirrored on the surface."
She turned from me and raised her head, gazing up through interlacing branches into the blue above.
"Ah, we must be friends, Carus," she said wearily; "we have cost each other too dear."
"I have cost you dear enough," I muttered.
"Not too dear for all you have taught me."
"What have I taught you?"
"To know a dream from the reality," she said listlessly.
"Better you should learn from me than from Walter Butler," I said bluntly.
"From him! Why, he taught me nothing. I fell in love again--really in love--for an hour or two--spite of the lesson he could not teach me. I tell you he taught me nothing--not even to distrust the vows of men. If it was a wrong he dared to meditate, it touches not me, Carus--touches me no more than his dishonoring hand, which he never dared to lay upon me."
"What do you mean?" I asked, troubled. "Have you taken a brief fancy to another? Do you imagine that you are in love again? What is it that you mean, Elsin?"