Mrs. Floyd's smile implied a
certain confidence in his credulity and pliability that was galling to
his proud spirit.
His horse was mettlesome, and Westerfelt drove rapidly over a good road
which ran along the foot of the mountain. The day was fine, the
scenery glorious, but he was oblivious of their charm. His agony had
never been so great. He kept his eyes on his horse; his face was set,
his glance hard. Once he turned upon her, maddened by the sweet,
half-confiding ring in her voice when she asked him why he was so
quiet, but the memory of his promise never to reproach her again
stopped him. With that came a sudden reckless determination to rid
himself of the whole thing by going away, at least temporarily, and
then he remembered that he really had some business affairs to attend
to in Atlanta.
"I am going away awhile, Miss Harriet," he told her.
"You are, really?"
"Yes; I'm needed down in Atlanta for a while. I reckon I'll get back
in a few weeks."
He saw her face change, but he did not read it correctly. At that
moment he could not have persuaded himself that she cared very much one
way or the other.
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