 failed midway. De
Craye dismissed that chicanery. It would be a service to Willoughby in the end,
without question. There was that to soothe his manly honour. Meanwhile he had to
face the thought of Willoughby as an antagonist, and the world looking heavy on
his honour as a friend.
    Such considerations drew him tenderly close to Miss Middleton. It must,
however, be confessed that the mental ardour of Colonel De Craye had been a
little sobered by his glance at the possibility of both of the couple being of
one mind on the subject of their betrothal. Desireable as it was that they
should be united in disagreeing, it reduced the romance to platitude, and the
third person in the drama to the appearance of a stick. No man likes to play
that part. Memoirs of the favourites of Goddesses, if we had them, would confirm
it of men's tastes in this respect, though the divinest be the prize. We behold
what part they played.
    De Craye chanced to be crossing the hall from the laboratory to the stables
when Clara shut the library-door behind her. He said something whimsical, and
did not stop, nor did he look twice at the face he had been longing for.
    What he had seen made him fear there would be no ride out with her that day.
Their next meeting reassured him; she was dressed in her riding-habit and wore a
countenance resolutely cheerful. He gave himself the word of command to take his
tone from her.
    He was of a nature as quick as Clara's. Experience pushed him further than
she could go in fancy; but experience laid a sobering finger on his practical
steps, and bade them hang upon her initiative. She talked little. Young Crossjay
cantering ahead was her favourite subject. She was very much changed since the
early morning; his liveliness, essayed by him at a hazard, was unsuccessful;
grave English pleased her best. The descent from that was naturally to
melancholy. She mentioned a regret she had that the Veil was interdicted to
women in Protestant countries. De Craye was fortunately silent; he could think
of no other veil than the Moslem, and when her meaning struck his witless head,
he admitted to himself that devout attendance on a young lady's mind stupefies
man's intelligence. Half an hour later, he was as foolish in supposing it a
confidence. He was again saved by silence.
    In Aspenwell village she drew a letter from her bosom and called to Crossjay
to post it. The boy sang out: »Miss Lucy Darleton! What a nice name!
