It is always a question whether, after all our efforts, calculations, and precautions, the issue of events does not remain precisely as much beyond prediction as would have been the case had we forborne to disquiet ourselves. One grey, moist morning, towards the end of May, and about three weeks before the predicted wedding-day, Ellice was walking along one of the suburban roads that lead towards London, in a state of unusual excitement. Her eyes were fixed in preoccupation, her colour was high, and her lips occasionally moved, as if under the influence of vivid thought. Presently the figure of Herne appeared coming along in the opposite direction at his customary long, measured stride. It was his habit when he took a holiday to walk out from London to the Quentins' villa in Putney; and Ellice had expected to meet him. To Geoffrey, however, the encounter was an unlooked-for pleasure; and when he recognised Ellice from afar, he began to make gestures expressive of satisfaction. He did not notice that she made no response to them. When they met he took her hand and kissed it. The road was only half a country one; several houses were within sight, and he probably thought that a warmer greeting would be open to objection. But Ellice raised her eyes to his with a curiously intent look, in which there was a subtly enlightening expression, readable only to a lover, and which informed Geoffrey that he might follow the dictate of his heart. He was not the man to neglect such a permission, and he stooped and kissed her lips. At the same time he apprehended that some wheel or other must be out of gear: women are seldom heedless of conventionality if their minds are serene. 'Have you come to carry me home with you?' he asked jocosely. 'Let us walk towards London,' answered Ellice, slipping her hand through his arm and causing him to turn. 'I am not going to be at home to-day.' 'Where shall we go, then?' 'Anywhere! I don't care where. To London.' 'By all means. But then there is no necessity for walking. The train will be quicker.' 'No; I prefer to walk--for the present,' said Ellice, speaking quickly and nervously, and pressing her companion's arm between her hands. 'And how long may we be away?' 'I never wish to go back!' Geoffrey's face suddenly became grave. Her tone and her whole manner now confirmed him in his first suspicion--that something was wrong. He glanced down at Ellice, rapidly passing in mental review all probable or possible causes of the difficulty. At length he said: 'Have you had a row with your father?' 'Yes--no; that is no matter. I want to talk only about ourselves. Do you love me?' 'If we are going to talk about that, it will take some time. One day is not long enough for me to tell you how much I love you.' 'Do you love me enough to do anything for me, or with me?' She moved her free hand down his sleeve to his hand, and repeated, 'Anything?'