Mr. Wells was grave still, and disposed to silence, albeit studiously attentive to his fellow-traveller's needs. He had not once relaxed since the Thursday interview. And Euphrasia was still puzzled whether to count that he had been displeased, or only pained, by aught that she had said—and if either, by what? Puzzled though she might be, however, a certain womanly reticence withheld her from making any attempt at explanation or apology. Mr. Wells gave to Euphrasia a "Graphic" and occupied himself with the "Times." He seemed disposed to make a very limited use of this last opportunity for intercourse. Once and again he looked up to enquire briefly, "Quite comfortable?" And receiving her assent, he returned to his leading articles. Other passengers were in the same compartment. Indeed, he had chosen a somewhat full carriage at starting, but one after another vanished at successive stations. And no new ones filled the vacant places. The last of their companions got out at the last station before West Norton. Only a few minutes more! Yet still the doctor read on, or, at all events, he pretended to do so. Suddenly he stopped, folded his paper neatly into a minute compass, put it into his bag, and glanced across at Euphrasia, with the remark— "Nearly there!" "Yes!" A sense of the coming "good-bye" assailed Euphrasia, and a lump came into her throat. This would not do! She held it down fiercely. The doctor looked her over with a calmly critical air of medical observation. "Getting done up with your journey?" "No, thanks!" Euphrasia spoke gruffly. Anything rather than to have him see what she felt, if he did not feel the same; and evidently he did not. "We shall be at the Junction in five minutes or so. You say your father will be there. I shall give you over to him." "And have done with you!" occurred to Euphrasia, as an appropriate conclusion. He had spoken in an odd cut-and-dried tone, but something made Euphrasia raise her eyes, and she saw that the face belied the voice. A curious pitying gentleness had crept into it, and he leant forward to pull straight the light rug over her knees—a needless attention, since they were just on the point of arriving. Euphrasia found herself disposed to tremble. Five minutes more!—less than five minutes!—and then, perhaps, never in life to meet again. Never, after a whole month of daily intercourse. True, the month's intercourse might have meant absolutely nothing to either of them; and in the majority of cases it would have meant nothing, being purely a case of professional intercourse. But—it 'had' meant more to her. Euphrasia knew now—she had not known before—to some extent how things were. Less than five minutes! So much the better, for fear she might betray herself. And yet—if it had but been one more half-hour! "Not in pain, I hope?" came in a voice of grave concern.