They had passed through Nutley gates and were in the drive. Harry was next to the water, and turned his head to look at it. Suddenly he gave the slightest start, then looked quickly round at his companion. She was leaning back, she had not looked out of the window. Harry frowned and smiled. When they stopped at the door, the coachman said, "Beg pardon, sir, but I've only just time to take you back, and then go on to the station to meet Mr. Wellgood. He didn't come by the eight-o'clock, so I must meet the eleven-thirty." For one moment Harry considered. "All right. I'll walk." "Very good, sir. I'll start directly and take the mare down quietly." The station lay on the other side of Meriton, two miles and a half from Nutley. The man drove off. "Oh, Harry, you might as well have driven, because I daren't ask you in! Father's not back, and Isobel is sure to have gone to bed." The rules were still strict at Nutley. For a moment again Harry seemed to consider. "I thought a walk would do me good. I may even be able to eat some supper!" he said with a laugh. "I shall get you into trouble if I come in, shall I? Then I won't. Good-night." "Father won't be here for an hour, nearly--but he might ask." "And you're incorrigibly truthful!" "Am I? Anyhow I rather think you want to go back to supper." She would have yielded him admission--risking her father's questions and perhaps her own answer to them--if he had pressed. Harry did not press; in his refraining she saw renewed evidence of his chivalry. She gave him her cheek to kiss; he kissed it lightly, saying, "Till to-morrow--what there's left of me after a night of dissipation!" She opened the door with her key, waved a last good-night to him, and disappeared into the dimly lighted hall. She was gone; the carriage was gone; Wellgood would not come for nearly an hour. Harry had not told what he had seen in the drive, nor disputed Vivien's assurance that Isobel Vintry would have gone to bed. Chance had put a marked florin on the mantelpiece for Wellgood; what were the chances of its being stolen, and of the theft being traced? To have moods is to be exposed to chances. Many moods come and go harmlessly--free, at least, from external consequences. Sometimes opportunity comes pat on the mood, and the mood is swift to lay all the blame on opportunity. "Well, it's not my fault this time," thought Harry. "And if I meet her, I can hardly walk by without saying good-night." The little adventure, with its sentimental background, had just the flavour that his spirit had been asking, just what the evening lacked. A brief scene of reserved feeling, more hinted than said, a becoming word of sorrow, and so farewell! No harm in that, and, under the circumstances, less from Harry would be hardly decent.