The journey from Fontainebleau to Verdun, a matter of one hundred and seventy miles or more, would be no great matter in these days of steam-power, but it was a considerable matter in those times of slow travelling. It seemed to weigh upon Ivor's spirits more than anything had yet weighed upon them; or Denham was less successful in hiding what he really felt. Mrs. Baron was brighter than for months past; her relief at not being forced to leave her husband or to part yet with Roy tending to cheerfulness; and Colonel Baron, glad to see her happy, was the same himself. Roy as usual was in good spirits. Ivor alone appeared to have parted with his elasticity. He did not give in to the mood of depression, but it was patent enough to Mrs. Baron, whose concerned gaze wandered often in his direction. No one except Ivor himself could know the haunting vision of Polly Keene, which floated before his eyes, through all those miles of driving, driving, ever farther away from where he craved to be. He might respond readily to Roy's chatter; but so soon as silence recurred, up again would come that picture of Polly, with her soft velvet eyes, her delicate colouring, her arch smile. And then he would hear the tender yielding in her voice, as she confessed that she did like Captain Ivor--well, just a little! and that she might perhaps be willing to marry him--well, some day! Out of this Denham would awake to the dreary flat of the surrounding country, in its wintry colouring; and the wonder would suggest itself--how many years might not creep slowly by before that could ever be? He might even grow old and grey in this miserable banishment before he should see Polly again. Why not? In those times wars had been wont to last in one unbroken stretch, for such periods as seven years, ten years, twenty years, thirty years. Would Polly be content to wait for him? This question took him by surprise one day, with nothing especial to call it forth. Ivor had not before so much as thought of the reverse possibility. The idea that she might _not_ be willing to wait came freshly; but having once come, it did not soon depart. He never afterwards lost the impression of that moment. The scene around was deeply stamped upon his mind, in connection with the one thought. They had just reached the end of a stage, and were entering a small town, where fresh horses would be in waiting. Ivor was listening to Roy, responding in a half-absent fashion, and gazing down the street, when, without prelude or warning, that query burst upon him.