«
    Clara did not show that the name betrayed anything.
    She said to De Craye: »It proves he should not be here thinking of nice
names.«
    Her companion replied: »You may be right.« He added, to avoid feeling too
subservient: »Boys will.«
    »Not if they have stern masters to teach them their daily lessons, and some
of the lessons of existence.«
    »Vernon Whitford is not stern enough?«
    »Mr. Whitford has to contend with other influences here.«
    »With Willoughby?«
    »Not with Willoughby.«
    He understood her. She touched the delicate indication firmly. The man's
heart respected her for it; not many girls could be so thoughtful or dare to be
so direct; he saw that she had become deeply serious, and he felt her love of
the boy to be maternal, past maiden sentiment.
    By this light of her seriousness, the posting of her letter in a distant
village, not entrusting it to the Hall post-box, might have import; not that she
would apprehend the violation of her private correspondence, but we like to see
our letter of weighty meaning pass into the mouth of the public box.
    Consequently this letter was important. It was to suppose a sequency in the
conduct of a variable damsel. Coupled with her remark about the Veil, and with
other things, not words, breathing from her (which were the breath of her
condition), it was not unreasonably to be supposed. She might even be a very
consistent person. If one only had the key of her!
    She spoke once of an immediate visit to London, supposing that she could
induce her father to go. De Craye remembered the occurrence in the hall at
night, and her aspect of distress.
    They raced along Aspenwell Common to the ford; shallow, to the chagrin of
young Crossjay, between whom and themselves they left a fitting space for his
rapture in leading his pony to splash up and down, lord of the stream.
    Swiftness of motion so strikes the blood on the brain that our thoughts are
lightnings, the heart is master of them.
    De Craye was heated by his gallop to venture on the angling question: »Am I
to hear the names of the bridesmaids?«
    The pace had nerved Clara to speak to it sharply: »There is no need.«
    »Have I no claim?«
    She was mute.
    »Miss Lucy Darleton, for instance; whose name I am almost as much in love
with as Crossjay.«
    »She will not be bridesmaid to me.
