He did not answer--for, indeed, he did not fully understand her; he only knew that in speaking of the higher life he and she meant something altogether different, although he still trusted that the difference was but superficial, and that deeper down lay an accord which would some day become patent to both. Meantime, with her eyes upon him, he knew not what to say; and Bride, with a look of sorrow and gentle compassion that went to his heart, rose and glided away, leaving him alone in the great dining-hall, with the flicker of many wax candles mingling with the fading light of the March evening. It was half-past six, and the light without, although fast dying, was not yet gone. Eustace felt it impossible after what had passed to join either the Duke in his study or Bride in the drawing-room; and taking his hat and putting on a thin overcoat, he sallied out from the castle, and after descending the road by the wide zigzag drive, he paused a moment at the lodge gate, and then turned off in the direction of the parsonage, where Mr. Tremodart lived alone in the solitude of childless widowhood. Eustace had been to that house before. He knew its disorderly and comfortless aspect, the long low rooms littered about with pipes and books and papers, fishing-tackle and riding-whips. He knew well the aspect of the tall gaunt parson, seated at some table with a pipe between his lips, and his long fingers busy over the manufacture of artificial flies. For Mr. Tremodart was a mighty fisherman, and there was excellent trout-fishing in the many streams that watered the plains above, and pike-fishing in the land-locked lakes high up in the moors. The season dear to the heart of anglers was coming on apace, and Eustace found the master of the ramshackle abode deep in the mysteries of his craft.