Eugenia could not make him out. How could he--how could any one--feel cross or sad on such an exquisite day? She herself was so happy. Everything was so beautiful, she could hardly help singing and dancing as she went along. They were out of Wareborough and its suburbs by now. The feeling, to dwellers in towns so ever-fresh and exhilarating, of "being in the country" was beginning to come over them. The lane along which they were walking was pleasant even at this season--pleasanter, in a sense, than in spring or summer; for though some hardy primroses, some few dog-roses and honeysuckles, were brave enough still, year after year, to show their welcome faces along the banks, it seemed to cost them an effort. They hardly looked at home beside the dingy hedges and smoke-dulled grass. But to-day the fields wore their "silver thatch;" "icy feathers fledged" the hedges; there was no fault to be found with either, in this bright winter clothing. The lane was hardly distinguishable from a real country lane. "How beautiful it is! Did you ever see a more exquisite day?" exclaimed Eugenia, looking up to the clear green-blue sky through the delicate tracery of the bare branches of the trees. "One could imagine oneself miles and miles away from any town." She had been walking a few steps in front of the others. As she spoke, she stopped for a moment, and turned round facing them. How pretty she looked! To Gerald it seemed she had never looked lovelier than standing there, in her thick dark-grey cloth dress, with her favourite bit of bright colour--a scarlet knot at her throat this time--reflecting its warmth and brilliance in her eager, upturned face. "It _is_ a lovely day!" said Sydney; "but, Eugenia, you used to dislike winter so--even bright frosty days you used to say were ghastly and mocking, and all sorts of disagreeable things." "I don't like winter at all," answered Eugenia, falling back into her place, and walking on beside the others. "But to-day is hardly like winter. There is a living feeling in the air, cold though it is--a sort of slight stir and rustle even among the bare boughs." "`The spring comes slowly up the way,'" said Gerald. "It's very slowly, though. Of course we are only at the beginning of February; still, I know the feeling you mean, Eugenia. I have often fancied I could distinguish a sort of soft expectancy about this time of year." Captain Chancellor happened to be a little way behind them. Either Gerald imagined him out of ear-shot, or for the moment had forgotten him altogether.