When the company began to disperse, he was quite ready to obey Dolly’s indication of a wish to go, and to take leave of Lady Westland when her son was out of the way, according to the girl’s desire. They set out upon the dusty road together in the grateful cool of the summer evening, carriage after carriage rolling past them, with many nods and wreathed smiles from the occupants, and no doubt many remarks also upon Dolly’s cavalier. But the pair themselves took it very tranquilly. They went slowly along, lingering on the grassy margin of the road to escape the dust, and enjoying the coolness and the quiet. “How sweet it is,” Dolly said, “after the heat of the day.” “You call that hot, Miss Dolly?” said Gus. “We should not call it hot where I come from.” “Well, I am glad I have nothing to do with the tropics,” Dolly said. “I like the cool evening better than the day. One can move now--one can walk; but I suppose you never can do anything there in the heat of the day?” “I am sorry you don’t like the tropics,” he said. “I think you would, though, if you had ever been there. It is more natural than England. Yes, you laugh, but I know what I mean. I should like to show you the bright-coloured flowers, and the birds, and all the things so full of colour--there’s no colour here. I tell Bell and Marie so, and they tell me it is I that can’t see. And then the winter----” Gus shuddered as he spoke. “But you ought to have gone out more,” said Dolly, “and taken exercise; that makes the blood run in your veins. Oh, I like the winter! We have not had any skating here for years. It has been so mild. I like a good sharp frost, and no wind, and a real frosty sun, and the ice bearing. You don’t know how delightful it is.” “No, indeed,” said Gus, with a shudder. “But, perhaps,” he added, “if one had a bright little companion like you, one might be tempted to move about more. Bell and Marie are delightful children, but they are a little too young, you know.” “But Alice----” said Dolly, with a little anxiety. “Alice never has quite forgiven me, I fear; and then she has her mother to think of; and they always tell me she cannot do this or that for her mourning. It is very right to wear mourning, I don’t doubt,” said Gus, “but never to be able to go out, or meet your fellow-creatures----” “That would be _impossible!_” said Dolly, with decision. “It is not a year yet. _You_ did not know poor Sir William. But next winter it will be different, and we must all try to do our best”--for Lady Markham, she was going to say--but he interrupted her. “That will be very kind, Miss Dolly. I think you could do a great deal without trying very much. I always feel more cheerful in your company. Do you remember the first time we ever were in each other’s company, on the railway?”