“Whenever you like,” said the lady; “you will always find me at home. My life is this: I ride every day very early, and far into the country, so I return tamed some two or three hours after noon, and devote myself to my friends. We are at home every evening, except opera nights; and let me tell you, because it is not the custom generally among your compatriots, we are always at home on Sundays.” Colonel Campian entered the room; the moment of departure was at hand. Lothair felt the consolation of being their companion to the station. He had once hoped it might be possible to be their companion in the train; but he was not encouraged. “Railways have elevated and softened the lot of man,” said Theodora, “and Colonel Campian views them with almost a religious sentiment. But I cannot read in a railroad, and the human voice is distressing to me amid the whirl and the whistling, and the wild panting of the loosened megatheria who drag us. And then those terrible grottos—it is quite a descent of Proserpine; so I have no resources but my thoughts.” “And surely that is sufficient,” murmured Lothair. “Not when the past is expelled,” said the lady. “But the future,” said Lothair. “Yes, that is ever interesting, but so vague that it sometimes induces slumber.” The bell sounded; Lothair handed the lady to her compartment. “Our Oxford visit,” she said, “has been a great success, and mainly through you.” The colonel was profuse in his cordial farewells, and it seemed they would never have ended had not the train moved. Lothair remained upon the platform until it was out of sight, and then exclaimed, “Is it a dream, or shall I ever see her again?” CHAPTER 27 Lothair reached London late in the afternoon. Among the notes and cards and letters on his table was a long and pressing dispatch from Mr. Putney Giles awaiting his judgment and decision on many points.