"_Algy!_" (with a little accent of scorn), "poor Algy!--he is in such a fit state for judging, is not he?" We both involuntarily look toward him. It is _his_ turn now, and his morosity is exchanged for an equally uncomfortable hilarity. His cheeks are flushed; he is laughing loudly, and going in heavily for the champagne. The next moment he is scowling discourteously at his old host, who, with his poor old chuckle entirely drowned, and overcome by an endless sort of choking monotony of cough, is clambering on tottery old legs into the coach, to try and get his share of shelter. We both laugh a little; and then Barbara speaks again. "Nancy, I want to say something to you. Just now I heard Roger ask whether there was a fly to be got at the public-house where the horses are put up, and it seems there _is_; and he has sent for it. You may think that it is for _her_, but it is not--it is for _you_! Will you promise me to go home in it, if he asks you?" I am silent. "Will you?" she repeats, taking hold of one of my froggy hands, while her eyes shine with a soft and friendly urgency; "you know you always used to take my advice when we were little--will you?" Somehow, at her words, a little warmth of comfortable reassurance steals about my heart. At home she always used to be right: perhaps she is right now--perhaps _I_ am wrong. I will be even better than her suggestion. Roger is standing not far from us. The rain has drenched his beard and his heavy mustache: the great drops stand on his eyelashes, and on his straight brows. Perhaps I only imagine it, but to me he looks sad and out of heart. It is not the weather that makes him so, if he is. Much he cares for that! I call him "Roger!" My voice is small and low, and the wind is large and loud, but he hears me. "Yes?" (turning at the sound with a surprised expression). "May I go home in the fly?" I ask impulsively, yet humbly, "I mean with--with _her_!" (a gulp at the pronoun), then, under the influence of a fear that he may think that I am driven by a hankering after creature comforts to this overture, I go on quickly, "it is not because I want to be kept dry--if I were to be dragged through the sea I could not be wetter than I am--but if you wish--Barbara thought--Barbara said--" I mumble off into shy incoherency. "_Will_ you?" he says, with a tone of eagerness and pleasure, which, if not real, is at least admirably feigned. "It is what I was just wishing to ask you, only" (laughing with a sort of constraint and a touch of bitterness) "I really was _afraid_!" "Am I such a _shrew_?" I say, looking at him with a feeling of growing light-heartedness. "Ah! I always was! was not I, Barbara?" Then, a moment after, in a tone that is almost gay, I say, "May Barbara come, too? is there room?" "Of course!" he answers readily; "surely there is plenty of room for all!"