“No one; only it occurred to me that there must have been something of that sort going on in the course of the proceedings. I have heard that you may do anything you please at Oxford if you only keep good hours and respect the oak. Here comes your machine. The chauffeur quite bore out the character you gave him; but I shall feel that I did something to help him by taking you out of his way.” “Confound him! he’s just a bit too quick,” said Mr. Wingfield. “We’ve got a lot more to say, haven’t we?” “You must say it to the chauffeur,” she said. “No; I’ll send him home with the machine and you’ll let me walk up the hill with you.” “Not to-day, please. Good-bye. I am very glad that we met. I have got rid of my gloomiest thoughts. I knew that what I wanted was a chat with some one who was--was--like you--some one not just like the rest of the world--some one who was a rigid purist in the matter of pronunciation--some one who had gained distinction as a painter.” “Oh, I say; you must forget that business. I’m not proud of it now. As a matter of fact I can recollect very little that I have a reason to be proud of.” “Good-bye. You maybe proud of having pulled a poor girl out of the black depths of her own reflections.” “Not black depths, surely.” “Black, without relief. You pulled me out of the Slough of Despond, and the world appears with a rose-coloured ribbon or two fluttering about it before my eyes. Thank you again and again. Good-bye.” “Good-bye. We are pretty sure to meet again. I suppose it wouldn’t be possible for you to suggest some place where you are likely to take your walks abroad?” She shook her head. “That would be to set oneself up as a sort of Providence, wouldn’t it?” “I like to make arrangements beforehand for coincidences,” said he. “Never mind. When you feel gloomy, and want somebody to confess to, don’t forget that I’m your man.” “You may be sure of that.” They had walked a dozen yards or so away from where the car had pulled up, and now he went back to it, and took the wheel from the chauffeur. She watched him start and gave him a little wave of her hand. He was a mile away before she had turned her face homeward. CHAPTER IX Priscilla’s father had a piece of news for her when they met at supper that night--the _menage_ at the farm involved tea at six and supper at half-past nine. “That young Wingfield, the grandson of the old man, has come to live at the Manor,” he said. “I heard all about it from Mr. Hickman to-day. Hickman is not his solicitor, but he knows all about it. A young scamp who will simply walk through that fine property which has been nursed for him by the trustees all these years.” “I think you told us that the old man hoped that by preventing him from inheriting the property until he was twenty-seven he would give him a chance of gaining some sense to enable him to work it properly,” remarked Priscilla.