Enduring
Harlan in the committee headquarters strained his self-possession daily.
So the young man lied brazenly in reply to the blandly courteous notes
of invitation from Mrs. Presson, who continued alert to the promising
social qualifications of General Waymouth's chief lieutenant. He pleaded
work. It was true in a measure. The day was filled with duties to which
he applied himself unflaggingly.
But from the supper-table he hurried out each evening into the country,
escaping from the city by the side streets, tramping miles of lane and
highway and field. His muscles craved the exertion. The city oppressed
him. His unwonted toil within four walls sapped his energy.
One evening he stepped aside from the highway. A horse, trotting
smartly, was overtaking him. But the horse did not pass him. It slowed
down to his stride, and Madeleine Presson called him from her trap. She
was alone.
"As this is the campaign of 'honesty,' I'll be honest with you," she
said. "This is not an accidental meeting. I have been guessing at the
roads you might take, and have been on your trail for days.
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