"So Lettice comes to-day," said Mr. Valentine, over his breakfast on the following Friday. "She was a nice little girl, once upon a time, but girls do alter so . . . I wonder if Londoners call this a fresh egg? I don't! Got another? . . . Well, this is a dull house to come to: but young things like London bustle. That's the difference between them and me. I'm too old for uprooting, and getting used to a new soil." "It takes time," his gentle wife said. "You've always been used to the country, you see." "And to fresh eggs! And to country ways. One of which is not lying late in bed," grunted Mr. Valentine. "Where's Prue gone? And what is Nan after?" "Prue's only gone to see if Nan has overslept herself." "Shouldn't do it a second time, if I'd the management of her!—" with a reasonable appreciation of his own power in the household as compared with his wife's. "What time does Lettice get here? I shall find her come, I suppose, when I get back," said Wallace. He had a distinct recollection of his old boyish worship of Lettice; merely a recollection. The feeling had died out through intervening years, as such boyish feelings do die out. Presumably it might be capable of revival; though Wallace was now a young man, and Lettice a young woman. The young woman is often an unexpected development from what the child has been: nothing remaining of the former individual except her identity. Wallace felt it to be extremely uncertain whether the present Lettice would excite in him such sensations as had been awakened by the former Lettice, nor was he particularly desirous that she should. He could look upon those sensations with the composed and critical interest which a man feels, surveying his sensations in a past illness. The little episode of his early enthusiasm had sunk into a background corner of his canvas. Some interest was aroused by the thought of seeing her again; but it was not keen enough to affect his appetite. "Who will meet her at Paddington, mother?" "Prue, of course." "If Prue has not time, I'll go," Mr. Valentine said, unexpectedly. He was known to detest above all things a huge London terminus. "Hallo, Nan! Taken to fine lady lie-a-bed ways!—" as his youngest appeared in the rear of Prue, buttoning her cuffs. "Oh, I'm so sorry, father, but I went off sound after I was called. No, never a fine lady!" cried Nan indignantly. "You ought to know me better." "Well, well, well, sit down and eat your breakfast, my girl; though it doesn't boast country butter:" and the old farmer, mollified by her protest, rubbed his broad hands together. "Hark to the wind! It's getting up for a storm, and no mistake." "Glass has gone down fast," put in Wallace. "Taken a regular leap!" "Well, it may or may not mean the same here. I'm not used to a sky mixed up with chimney-pots. I should know well enough, down at the old home, what to expect. Blowing up for a gale of some sort—that's clear."