Meanwhile, they jogged along in the open fly towards Rottingdean. A long, even road, with a view on the right of the open sea, on the left alternate high hedges and wide meadows. The grass on the cliffs was green; among the grass were little footpaths made by wandering feet that had diverged from the main road. Florence followed the little tracks with her eyes; she thought of footpaths like them far away, not by the sea, but among the hanging woods of Surrey. She and Walter had sauntered along them less than a year ago. She thought of home, of the dear mother busy with her household duties, but making time between to write to the boys in India; of the dear, noisy boys who suddenly grew to be young men and vanished into the whirl of life; of the dirty old pony carriage in which she had loved to drive her sweetheart; and when she got to this point her thoughts came to a full stop to think more particularly of the pony. His name was Moses, and he had liked being kissed and eating sugar. She remembered, with a pang of self-reproach, that in the last months before her marriage she used to forget to kiss Moses, though she often stood absently stroking his patient nose. She had sometimes even forgotten his morning lump of sugar in the excitement of reading the letter that the early post never failed to bring. “Are you fond of scenery, dear?” Aunt Anne asked. With a start Florence looked round at the old lady, at Walter, at the shabby lining of the fly. “Yes, very,” she answered. “I knew it by the expression of your face when you looked at the sea. Mr. Baines says it is a lovely view.” Why should Mr. Baines be quoted? Florence wondered. She looked again—an open sea, a misty horizon, a blue sky, and the sun shining. A fine sea-view, certainly, and a splendid day, but scenery was hardly the term to apply to the distance beside them. “Is Mr. Baines very fond of the sea?” she asked. She saw that Aunt Anne was waiting for her to speak, and she said the first words that presented themselves. “Yes, my love, he delights in scenery. You must call him Uncle Robert, Florence. He would be deeply wounded to hear you say Mr. Baines. Neither he nor I could think of Walter’s wife as anything but our niece. You will remember, won’t you, my love?” Aunt Anne spoke in the gentle but authoritative voice which was, as they had already found, difficult to resist. “Yes, Aunt Anne, of course I will if you wish it; it was only because as yet I do not know him.” “But you soon will know him, my love,” the old lady answered confidently; “and when you do, you will feel that neither he nor I could think of Walter’s wife except to love her. Dear child, how fond he will be of you!” And she put her hand affectionately on Florence’s while she turned to Walter and asked suddenly— “Walter dear, have you got a white silk handkerchief for your neck?” He looked at her for a moment, almost puzzled, wondering whether she wanted to borrow one. “No, Aunt Anne, I fear I have not.”