Many a time, when hundreds of miles had separated them, Mona and Dudley had in imagination talked to each other frankly and simply; but, now that they were together, they both became suddenly shy and timid. What were their mutual relations? Were they old friends, or mere acquaintances? Neither knew. The silence became awkward. "Your reading was a great treat," said Mona, somewhat formally at last. Anybody could have told him that. He wanted something more from her. "I am glad if it did not bore you," he said coldly. She looked up. They were just leaving the last of the Kirkstoun street-lamps behind them, but in the uncertain light they exchanged a smile. That did more for them than many words. "It is not poetry of course," he said. "It is only a magnificent instance of what my shaggy old Edinburgh professor would call 'metrical intellection.'" "And yet, surely, in a broader sense, it is poetry. It seems to me that that magnificent 'genius of morality' produces art of a kind peculiarly its own. It is not cleverness; it is inspiration--though it is not 'poesie.' In any case, you made it poetry for me. I saw the sunny, glowing street, and the blue sky overhead." "Did you?" he said eagerly. "Truly? I am so glad. I had such a vivid mental picture of it myself, that I thought the brain-waves must carry it to some one. It is very dark here. Won't you take my arm?" "No, thank you; I am well used to this road in the dark. By the way, I must apologise for disturbing your reading. I would have remained at the door, but I was afraid some man would offer me his seat, and that we should between us kick the foot-board and knock down a few hymn-books before we settled the matter." "I was so relieved when you came forward and took your own place," he said slowly, as though he were determined that she should not take the words for an idle compliment "I had been watching that vacant corner beside Miss Simpson. How is Castle Maclean?" "It is pretty well delivered over to the sea-gulls at present. I am afraid it must be admitted that Castle Maclean is more suited to a summer than to a winter residence. I often run down there, but these east winds are not suggestive of lounging." "Not much," he said. "When I picture you there, it is always summer." "Oh," said Mona suddenly, "there is one thing that I must tell you. You remember a conversation we had about the Cooksons?" "Yes." "Matilda and I are great friends now, and I have had good reason to be ashamed of my original attitude towards her. I think it was you who put me right." "Indeed it was not," he said warmly. "I, forsooth! You put yourself right--if you were ever wrong."