I'm sure she'll let me go, though. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road.
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