Well, it was over. And he must return to town. For he would play no foolish tricks. The girl was not in his rank in life, and he could not follow her without injury to her. He was no preacher, and he had lived for years among men whose lives, if not worse than the lives of their descendants, wore no disguise; who, if they did not sin more, sinned more openly. But he had a heart, and to mar an innocent life for his pleasure had shocked him; even if the girl’s modesty and self-respect, disclosed by a hundred small things, had not made the notion of wronging her abhorrent. None the less he took his breakfast in a kind of dream, whispered “Mary!” three times in different tones, and, being suddenly accosted by the waiter, was irritable. With all this he was wise enough to know his own weakness, and that the sooner he was out of Bristol the better. He sent to the Bush office to book a place by the midday coach to town; and then only, when he had taken the irrevocable step, he put on his hat to kill the intervening time in Bristol. Unfortunately, as he crossed the hall, intending to walk towards Clifton, he heard himself named; and turning, he saw that the speaker was the lady in black, and wearing a veil, whom he had remarked walking up and down beside the coach, while the horses were changing at Marshfield. “Mr. Vaughan?” she said. He raised his hat, much surprised. “Yes,” he answered. He fancied that she was inspecting him very closely through her veil. “I am Mr. Vaughan.” “Pardon me,” she continued—her voice was refined and low—“but they gave me your name at the office. I have something which belongs to the lady who travelled with you yesterday, and I am anxious to restore it.” He blushed; nor could he have repressed the blush if his life had hung upon it. “Indeed?” he murmured. His confusion did not permit him to add another word. “Doubtless it was left in the coach,” the lady explained, “and was taken to my room with my luggage. Unfortunately I am leaving Bristol at once, within a few minutes, and I cannot myself return it. I shall be much obliged if you will see that she has it safely.” She spoke as if the thing were a matter of course. But Vaughan had now recovered himself. “I would with pleasure,” he said; “but I am myself leaving Bristol at midday, and I really do not know how—how I can do it.” “Then perhaps you will arrange the matter,” the lady replied in a tone of displeasure. “I have sent the parcel to your room and I have not time to regain it. I must go at once. There is my maid! Good morning!” And with a distant bow she glided from him, and disappeared through the nearest doorway.