When he has been away Lavinia has always missed her cousin. This last time has seemed more irksome than any previous one; partly because more has happened than is usually the case in the week of his absence; partly, as she tells herself with heartfelt congratulation, because she must have grown much fonder of him. There can be no question now as to its being “to please herself” that she is marrying Rupert, since she plainly cannot do without him. They have left the farm behind them, and, dipping down into a valley-let, are passing through a hop-garden, where the eye travels through the long vista of bare poles to little blue air-pictures at the end. From a chestnut-brake near by, a nightingale, mimicked by a throstle, is whit-whitting and glug-glugging. They pause to listen. “I wish it was over,” says Lavinia, presently, continuing a theme which Philomel had interrupted. “I dread it unaccountably; no, not unaccountably! I suppose ’twould be odd if I did not?” “I can’t help grudging him to Féodorovna!” answers Rupert, rather sadly. “We have so much more right to him.” “But we could not have made him a quarter as comfortable,” rejoins Lavinia. “You know how elaborate her arrangements were; and since Mr. Prince put his foot down about allowing her to have only two at a time, Captain Binning has had the benefit of almost all her attentions.” “A doubtful good that!” “She does not think much of the other one!” pursues Lavinia, half-laughing. “He has had a bit of his nose and half his upper lip shot away, poor fellow! but, unfortunately, it was not in action, but while he was sitting at luncheon on the veldt.” “And Binning! Was my father much upset by the interview?” Lavinia sighs. “At first I thought he was going to have one of those dreadful _dry_ agonies such as he used to have at first; but, thank God, that passed off, and then he could talk a little--tell me a little about him.” With an afterthought, “He was quite nice in what he said.” “You mean that he did not institute any comparisons!” says the young man, reading between the lines, and with that unfortunate plate-glass view into his companion’s thoughts which she often inwardly deplores. “None. I had much rather have put off _my_ visit a little later,” continues Miss Carew--they are strolling on again--“until the poor man had recovered his strength a little. His wound is not half healed yet, and he was much exhausted by his journey; but Féodorovna insists on my going to-day; she says that he has expressed a great wish to see me, and that, as far as her power to gratify him goes, he shall not be balked in his slightest whim.” Rupert lifts his eyebrows. “Already, my Féo?” he says, in sarcastic apostrophe of the absent fair one. Lavinia has indulged herself in a light mimicry of Miss Prince’s tones, which always amuses them both; and they walk on mutually pleased.