When they arrived at the White House, which they did not do by honest, straightforward means, along the plain road that led to it, but by a quite unnecessary roundabout--an excursion led by Jock through all the narrowest byways--a sudden stop seemed to be put to this chapter of existence. He had a hand put into his for one second, a succession of merry nods, and farewells waved by the same hand, and then he stood with Lucy, come to himself, outside a blank door, a dropped curtain, a sudden conclusion. Philip stood gazing; he did not seem to have any energy even to turn round. Had it been suggested to him to lie down there and spend the night he would have thought the suggestion most reasonable. Had he been alone he would, no doubt, have lingered, for some time at least. Even as it was, he never knew how long a time--a minute, or an hour, or perhaps only an infinitesimal moment, too small to be reckoned on any watch--elapsed before, slowly coming to himself with the giddiness of a fall, he saw that he was with Lucy, and that she was turning to go home. Jock was roaming on in advance, a little moving solid speck in the vague dark, and Lucy moved on, softly and lightly, indeed, but with no enchantment about her steps. And then what she said was all of the old world, the antiquated dried-up Sahara of existence from which Philip had escaped for the first time in his life. “It looks a little like rain,” Lucy said; “it is a good thing we are not far from home.” “Ah! but it does not so much matter now,” Philip said, with a sigh. “She would have spoiled her pretty dress.” “Yes; muslins go at once,” said Lucy; “it is the starch. I didn’t think it would rain when we came out. But we must not grumble--we have had a beautiful summer. Does Farafield seem just the same to you, Philip, when you come home?” “Farafield! I never saw anything so sweet--the air is softer than I ever felt it in my life; and the common smells--like Paradise,” cried the young man in the sudden bewilderment which had come upon him, which he did not understand. “Do you think so?” said Lucy, in great surprise; especially the last point was doubtful; but she thought it was the warmth of local enthusiasm, and blamed herself for her want of patriotism. “I like it very well,” she added, with hesitation; “but--_after_ one has been away the first time, then one sees all the difference. I don’t suppose I should feel the same again.” Then there was a pause. Philip did not feel inclined to talk; his mind was quite abstracted out of its ordinary channel. As they went back he felt within himself a dual consciousness--he was walking with _her_, helping her over the stones, disengaging her dress from the prickles; and at the same time he was walking demurely with Lucy, who required no such services. The sensible young schoolmaster, had the question been suddenly put to him, could not, at the moment, have distinguished, which was true.