Vi and the countrywoman were talking, or rather the countrywoman was talking and Vi was paying feigned attention. Dorrie, her flaxen curls falling across my shoulder, began to nod. Of the other passengers, one was drowsing and the other, a fierce be-whiskered little man, was reading a paper, leaning forward to catch the glimmering light which fell from the lamp in the center of the carriage. I was left alone with my thoughts. They were not pleasant. The religious commonsense of the man by the harbor disturbed me. The face of “Lady Halloway” proved the truth of his assertions. His words would not be silenced. Strident and accusing, they rose, above the rumbling of the train, and wove themselves into a maddening chorus: “_The wages of sin is death; the wages of sin is death; the wages of sin is death_.” A man whose intellect I despised, to whose opinions I should ordinarily pay no attention, had spoken truth--and I had heard it. At Beccles the train stopped. The countrywoman alighted. The drowsy man woke up and followed her. The fierce little man curled himself up in his corner and spread his paper over his face to shut out the light. There were four hours more until we reached London. The train resumed its journey through the dark. I dared not stir for fear of waking Dorrie. “Comfortable, Vi?” She nodded and leant her face against the cushioned back of the carriage, closing her eyes. I watched her pure profile--the arched eyebrows, the heavy eyelids, the straight nose, the full and pouting mouth, the rounded chin, the long, sensuous curve of the graceful neck. I traced the small blue veins beneath the transparent whiteness of her temples. I studied her beauty, committing it to memory. Then I commenced to compare her with Dorrie, discovering the likeness. I wondered whether I had first felt drawn to her because she was so like Dorrie, or only for herself. I looked up from Dorrie, and found Vi gazing at me. I had thought her sleeping. “Just wakened?” “I’ve been awake all the time. I’ve been thinking.” “Of what?” “Last night. How different it was! We didn’t have to hide. No one was looking.” “Then we’ll go again to where no one is looking.” “We can’t always do that. But I was thinking of something else.” “What was it this time?” She pressed her cheek against the glass of the window, gazing out into the night. Then she leant over to me, clasping her hands. “How cruel it was, what he said to us!” “Who?” “The man there in Ransby.” “But he didn’t speak to us. He was one of those people who shout at street-corners because they like to hear their own voices.” “He was speaking to me,” she said, “though he didn’t know it.” “Vi, you’re not growing nervous?” “That isn’t the word. I’m looking forward and thinking how horrid it would be to have to hide always.” “We shan’t.” She looked at Dorrie, making no reply. Presently she spoke again. “Dante, have you ever thought of it? I’m four years older than you are.”