"Memory didn't happen to be handy at the first mention of the lady's name. As the general said of his ammunition and transport, there's the army!--but it was leagues in the rear. Like the footman who went to sleep after smelling fire in the house, I was thinking of other things. It will serve me right to be forgotten--if I am. I've a curiosity to know: a remainder of my coxcombry. Not that exactly: a wish to see the impression I made on your friend.--None at all? But any pebble casts a ripple." "That is hardly an impression," said Clara, pacifying her irresoluteness with this light talk. "The utmost to be hoped for by men like me! I have your permission?--one minute--I will get my ticket." "Do not," said Clara. "Your man-servant entreats you!" She signified a decided negative with the head, but her eyes were dreamy. She breathed deep: this thing done would cut the cord. Her sensation of languor swept over her. De Craye took a stride. He was accosted by one of the railway-porters. Flitch's fly was in request for a gentleman. A portly old gentleman bothered about luggage appeared on the landing. "The gentleman can have it," said De Craye, handing Flitch his money. "Open the door." Clara said to Flitch. He tugged at the handle with enthusiasm. The door was open: she stepped in. "Then mount the box and I'll jump up beside you," De Craye called out, after the passion of regretful astonishment had melted from his features. Clara directed him to the seat fronting her; he protested indifference to the wet; she kept the door unshut. His temper would have preferred to buffet the angry weather. The invitation was too sweet. She heard now the bell of her own train. Driving beside the railway embankment she met the train: it was eighteen minutes late, by her watch. And why, when it flung up its whale-spouts of steam, she was not journeying in it, she could not tell. She had acted of her free will: that she could say. Vernon had not induced her to remain; assuredly her present companion had not; and her whole heart was for flight: yet she was driving back to the Hall, not devoid of calmness. She speculated on the circumstance enough to think herself incomprehensible, and there left it, intent on the scene to come with Willoughby. "I must choose a better day for London," she remarked. De Craye bowed, but did not remove his eyes from her. "Miss Middleton, you do not trust me." She answered: "Say in what way. It seems to me that I do." "I may speak?" "If it depends on my authority." "Fully?" "Whatever you have to say. Let me stipulate, be not very grave. I want cheering in wet weather."