“I never thought you would really come,” she said. “I have been waiting for that remark,” he replied, with his most irresistible smile; “now for some more practical conversation.” As he did not immediately begin this conversation himself, her curiosity overcame her, and she asked, “How did you manage to get out?” “As my friend Dr Escott offered no opposition, I walked away.” “Did he really let you?” “He never even expostulated.” “Then—then it’s all right?” she said, with an inexplicable sensation of disappointment. “Perfectly—so far.” “But—didn’t they object?” “Not yet,” he replied; “objections to my movements are generally made after they have been performed.” Somehow she felt immensely relieved at this hint of opposition. “I’m so glad you got away,” she whispered, and then repented in a flutter. “Not more so than I am,” he answered, pressing her hand. “And now,” he added, “I should like to know how near Ashditch Junction you propose to take me.” “Where are you going to, Mr Beveridge?” The “Mr Beveridge” was thrown in as a corrective to the hand-pressure. “To London; where else, my Alicia? With £10, 17s. 6d. in my pocket, I shall be able to eat at least three good dinners, and, by the third of them, if I haven’t fallen on my feet it will be the first time I have descended so unluckily.” “But,” she asked, considerably disconcerted, “I thought you were going back to your parish.” For a moment he too seemed a trifle put about. Then he replied readily, “So I am, as soon as I have purchased the necessary outfit, restocked my ecclesiastical library, and called on my bishop.” She felt greatly relieved at this justification of her share in the adventure. “Drop me at the nearest point to the station,” he said. “I am afraid,” she began—“I mean I think you had better get out soon. The first road on the right will take you straight there, and we had better not pass it.” “Then I must bid you farewell,” and he sighed most effectively. “Farewell, my benefactress, my dear Alicia! Shall I ever see you, shall I ever hear of you again?” “I might—I might just write once; if you will answer it: I mean if you would care to hear from such a——” She found it difficult to finish, and prudently stopped. “Thanks,” he replied cheerfully; “do,—I shall live in hopes. I’d better stop the carriage now.” He let down the window, when she said hastily, “But I don’t know your address.” He reflected for an instant. “Care of the Archbishop of York will always find me,” he replied; and as if unwilling to let his emotion be observed, he immediately put his head out of the window and called on the coachman to stop. “Good-bye,” he whispered, tenderly, squeezing her fingers with one hand and opening the door with the other. “Don’t quite forget me,” she whispered back. “Never!” he replied, and was in the act of getting out when he suddenly turned, and exclaimed, “I must be more out of practice than I thought; I had almost forgotten the protested salute.”