Vibart could never induce his companion to prolong his walk as far as Mrs.
Vance's drawing-room; but one afternoon, when the distant hills lay blue
beyond the twilight of overarching elms, the two men strolled on into the
country past that lady's hospitable gateposts.
It was a still day, the road was deserted, and every sound came sharply
through the air. Mr. Carstyle was in the midst of a disquisition on
Diderot, when he raised his head and stood still.
"What's that?" he said. "Listen!"
Vibart listened and heard a distant storm of hoof-beats. A moment later, a
buggy drawn by a pair of trotters swung round the turn of the road. It was
about thirty yards off, coming toward them at full speed. The man who
drove was leaning forward with outstretched arms; beside him sat a girl.
Suddenly Vibart saw Mr. Carstyle jump into the middle of the road, in
front of the buggy. He stood there immovable, his arms extended, his legs
apart, in an attitude of indomitable resistance. Almost at the same moment
Vibart realized that the man in the buggy had his horses in hand.
"They're not running!" Vibart shouted, springing into the road and
catching Mr. Carstyle's alpaca sleeve. The older man looked around
vaguely: he seemed dazed.
"Come away, sir, come away!" cried Vibart, gripping his arm. The buggy
swept past them, and Mr. Carstyle stood in the dust gazing after it.
At length he drew out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
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