“It is an odd thing to do,” she continued to say to herself, “to walk across country in the snow with a man one does not know. But he is certainly Lord Hurstmanceaux by his resemblance to his sister, and it will be better to walk than to sit still in a railway-carriage, with the chance of being frozen into bronchitis or smashed by an express train.” And she took her way across the bleak, blank pastures which stretched around the scene of the accident, with little frozen brooks and ditches and sunken fences dividing them, and no trees or hedges to relieve the tedium of the level landscape, since scientific agriculture ruled supreme. “How well she carries herself,” thought Hurstmanceaux. “Who can she be possibly, that I do not know her by sight? And her people know Mouse and not me!” The snow was hard, and afforded good footing. She crossed the ditches and little streams as easily and with as much elasticity as Ossian did, and went on her way quickly and with energy, carrying her bouquet of violets close up to her mouth to keep out the biting wind. She asked him the name of the town to which they were going, and if they would be able to telegraph thence. “I fear the wires will be damaged there, too,” he answered. “It is called Greater Thorpe. There is Lesser Thorpe, St. Mary’s Thorpe, Monk’s Thorpe, Dane’s Thorpe--the two latter charming names suggestive of the past. You would see the spire of Greater Thorpe from here if it were a clear day, or what does duty in England as a clear day.” “One’s greatest want in England is distance,” she answered. “I was in India a little while ago. What an atmosphere! It is heaven only to live in it.” “Yes, the light is wonderful.” “So golden and so pure. To think that the English dare to defile it with factory smoke!” “That is on a piece with all we do there.” “How vulgar, how fussy, how common the conquerors look beside the conquered! Go into a bank, a counting-house, a police-station, and see the calm, stately, proud, reposeful natives in their flowing robes, bullied and sworn at by some smug, sandy-haired, snub-nosed official in a checked suit and a pot hat! One wishes for a second and successful mutiny.” “It must be admitted we are neither pliant nor picturesque. The Russians, when they succeed us, will at least ‘compose’ better. In what part of India were you?” She told him, adding, “I have left with extreme regret.” “You were in the Framlingham’s Presidency; did you know them?” “I was on a visit to them.” “If she would only say who she is!” thought Ronald, as a gust of wind blew them apart and sent the snow spray into their faces; he felt sure that she belonged to his world and that she was married; she had a composure of tone and manner which made her seem much older than her features looked. He was lost in admiration of the beauty of her feet as the wind lifted her skirts, or as she lifted herself over the ditches in a spring as easy as the dog’s.