He leaned his head in his hand in a sort of broken-down, collapsed, dogged way that moved her pity, though hardly her respect. By-and-by it struck her as a very grave thing that he did not reply by word, nor even by look. He could decide with a glance, and why did he hesitate? Was he really balancing her against Mademoiselle Klosking weighted with a share of his winnings? This doubt was wormwood to her pride and self-respect; but his crushed attitude allayed in some degree the mere irritation his doubt caused. The minutes passed and the miles: still that broken figure sat before her, with his face hidden by his white hand. Zoe's courage began to falter. Misgivings seized her. She had made that a matter of love which, after all, to a man, might be a mere matter of business. He was poor, too, and she had thrust her jealousy between him and money. He might have his pride too, and rebel against her affront. As for his thoughts, under that crushed exterior, which he put on for a blind, they were so deliberate and calculating that I shall not mix them on this page with that pure and generous creature's. Another time will do to reveal his sordid arithmetic. As for Zoe, she settled down into wishing, with all her heart, she had not submitted her lover so imperiously to a test, the severity of which she now saw she had underrated. Presently the speed of the train began to slacken--all too soon. She now dreaded to learn her fate. Was she, or was she not, worth a few thousand pounds ready money? A signal-post was past, proving that they were about to enter a station. Yet another. Now the wheels were hardly turning. Now the platform was visible. Yet he never moved his white, delicate, womanish fingers from his forehead, but remained still absorbed, and looked undecided. At last the motion entirely ceased. Then, as she turned her head to glean, if possible, the name of the place, he stole a furtive glance at her. She was pallid, agitated. He resolved upon his course. As soon as the train stopped, he opened the door and jumped out, without a word to Zoe, or even a look. Zoe turned pale as death. “I have lost him,” said she. “No, no,” cried Fanny. “See, he has not taken his cane and umbrella.” _“They_ will not keep him from flying to his money and her,” moaned Zoe. “Did you not see? He never once looked at me. He could not. I am sick at heart.” This set Fanny fluttering. “There, let me out to speak to him.” “Sit quiet,” said Zoe, sternly. “No; no. If you love him--” “I do love him--passionately. And _therefore_ I'll die rather than share him with any one.” “But it is dreadful to be fixed here, and not allowed to move hand or foot.” “It is the lot of women. Let me feel the hand of a friend, that is all; for I am sick at heart.” Fanny gave her her hand, and all the sympathy her shallow nature had to bestow. Zoe sat motionless, gripping her friend's hand almost convulsively, a statue of female fortitude.