When they had landed the two stood for a moment on the grass-grown quay in silence. "Well, good afternoon," said Elizabeth suddenly. "Thank you so much for telling me all about Holland." And with that she turned and walked away along the narrow street between the trim little houses that look so like a child's toy village tumbled out of a white wood box. Mr. Edward Brown was left, planted there. "Well!" said he, and spent the afternoon wandering about near the landing-stage, and wondering what would be the next move in this game of hers. It was a childish game, this playing at strangers, yet he owned that it had a charm. He ate currant bread and drank coffee at a little inn by the quay, sitting at the table by the door and watching the boats. Two o'clock came and went. Four o'clock came, half-past four, and with that went the last return steamer for Bruges. Still Mr. Edward Brown sat still and smoked. Five minutes later Elizabeth's blue cotton dress gleamed in the sunlight at the street corner. He rose and walked towards her. "I hope you have enjoyed yourself in Holland," he said. "I lost my way," said she. He saw that she was very tired, even before he heard it in her voice. "When is the next boat?" "There are no more boats to-day. The last left about ten minutes ago." "You might have told me," she said resentfully. "I beg your pardon," said he. "You bade me good-bye with an abruptness and a decision which forbade me to tell you anything." "I beg your pardon," she said humbly. "Can I get back by train?" "There are no trains." "A carriage?" "There are none. I have inquired." "But you," she asked suddenly, "how did you miss the boat? How are you going to get back?" "I shall walk," said he, ignoring the first question. "It's only eleven miles. But for you, of course, that's impossible. You might stay the night here. The woman at this inn seems a decent old person." "I can't. There's a girl coming to join me. She's in the sixth at the High School where I teach. I've promised to chaperon and instruct her. I must meet her at the station at ten. She's been ten years at the school. I don't believe she knows a word of French. Oh! I must go. She doesn't know the name of my hotel, or anything. I must go. I must walk." "Have you had any food?" "No; I never thought about it." She did not realise that she was explaining to him that she had been walking to get away from him and from her own thoughts, and that food had not been among these. "Then you will dine now; and, if you will allow me, we will walk back together." Elizabeth submitted. It was pleasant to be taken care of. And to be "ordered about," that was pleasant, too. Curiously enough, that very thing had been a factor in the old quarrel. At nineteen one is so independent. She was fed on omelettes and strange, pale steak, and Mr. Brown insisted on beer. The place boasted no wine cellar.