—"I'm sorry." And from his saddle he looked down toward the house more longingly and regretfully than he knew.
Richard felt himself turning from pale to consuming crimson. There was a simple sincerity in Severn's words which was almost irresistible. For a moment he felt like shouting out a loud denial of his falsehood: "She is there! she's alone and in tears, awaiting you. Go to her—and be damned!" But before he could gather his words into his throat, they were arrested by Major Luttrel's cool, clear voice, which, in its calmness, seemed to cast scorn upon his weakness.
"Captain," said the Major, "I shall be very happy to take charge of your farewell."
"Thank you, Major. Pray do. Say how extremely sorry I was. Good by again." And Captain Severn hastily turned his horse about, gave him his spurs, and galloped away, leaving his friends standing alone in the middle of the road. As the sound of his retreat expired, Richard, in spite of himself, drew a long breath. He sat motionless in the saddle, hanging his head.
"Mr. Clare," said the Major, at last, "that was very cleverly done."
Richard looked up. "I never told a lie before," said he.
"Upon my soul, then, you did it uncommonly well.
