Here they were interrupted by Brian and Urania, and presently Ida found herself walking in the moonlight in a broad avenue of standard roses, at the end of the garden, with Mr. Wendover by her side, and the voices of the other three sounding ever so far away. On the other side of a low quickset hedge stretched a wide expanse of level meadow land, while in the farther distance rose the Wiltshire hills, and nearer the heathy highlands of the New Forest. The lamp-lit windows of Miss Wendover's cottage glimmered a little way off, across gardens and meadows. 'And so you are really going to leave us to-morrow morning?' said Brian, regretfully. 'By the eight o'clock train from Winchester. To-morrow evening I shall be sitting on a form in a big bare class-room, listening to the babble of a lot of girls pretending to learn their lessons.' 'Are you fond of teaching?' 'Just imagine to yourself the one occupation which is most odious to you, and then you may know how fond I am of teaching; and of school-girls; and of school-life altogether.' 'It is very hard that you should have to pursue such an uncongenial career.' 'It seems so to me; but, perhaps, that is my selfishness. I suppose half the people in this world have to live by work they hate.' 'Allowing for the number of people to whom all kind of work is hateful, I dare say you are right. But I think, in a general way, congenial work means successful work. No man hates the profession that brings him fame and money; but the doctor without patients, the briefless barrister, can hardly love law or medicine.' He beguiled Ida into talking of her own life, with all its bitterness. There was something in his voice and manner which tempted her to confide in him. He seemed thoroughly sympathetic. 'I keep forgetting what strangers we are,' she said, apologizing for her unreserve. 'We are not strangers. I have heard of you from Bessie so much that I seem to have known you for years. I hope you will never think of me as a stranger.' 'I don't think I ever can, after this conversation. I am afraid you will think me horribly egotistical.' She had been talking of her father and stepmother, the little brother she loved so fondly, dwelling with delight upon his perfections. 'I think you all that is good and noble. How I wish this were not your last evening at the Knoll!' 'Do you think I do not wish it? Hark, there's Bessie calling us.' They went back to the house, and to the drawing-room, which wore quite a festive appearance, in honour of Bessie's birthday; ever so many extra candles dotted about, and a table laid with fruit and sandwiches, cake and claret-cup, the children evidently considering a superfluity of meals indispensable to a happy birthday. Blanche and her juniors were sitting about the room, in the last stage of exhaustion after hide-and-seek.