“Necessarily,” said Framlingham, as he looked at her with his keen sagacious grey eyes and thought to himself, “It is well to begin with a little aversion. He may be odious to her, but I doubt if he is indifferent.” Katherine was silent; the momentary color had faded out of her face; her gaze followed the grimy canvas of the collier as it sailed slowly to westward. “Well, I’m sorry,” said her friend, as he patted his skye-terrier. “He’s a good man, and I should like to know you were in the hands of a good man, my dear. You will have all the royal and noble blackguards in Europe after you, and you have nobody I think to advise you, except your lawyers, who are all very well in their way, but----” Katherine smiled a little, rather scornfully. “The royal and noble people cannot marry me by force, and I should suppose they will understand a plain ‘No’ if they don’t often hear one. Besides, if I do what I meditate I shall soon lose all attraction for them.” “Good Lord, what’s that? You alarm me. I remember you expressed very revolutionary ideas in India.” “I will tell you after dinner. You will dine with us, won’t you, and stay a day or two?” “I will dine with pleasure, and sleep the night. But I must be back in town by the first morning train. I have to go down to Windsor at noon. What on earth can you be thinking of doing? Buying a kingdom in the South Seas, or finishing the Panama?” “Something that you will perhaps think quite as eccentric. Let us talk of other things. The day is a real English day to welcome you, so dim, so sad, so still; the weather you sigh for in India.” “Yes,” said Framlingham, falling in with her mood. “One thinks of Lytton’s verses: “‘Wandering lonely, over seas, At shut of day, in unfamiliar land, What time the serious light is on the leas, To me there comes a sighing after ease Much wanted, and an aching wish to stand Knee-deep in English grass, and have at hand A little churchyard cool, with native trees And grassy mounds, thick laced with osier-bands, Wherein to rest at last, nor farther stray. So, sad of heart, muse I at shut of day, On safe and quiet England, till thought ails With inward groanings deep for meadows grey, Grey copses, cool with twilight, shady dales, Home-gardens, full of rest, where never may Come loud intrusion, and what chiefly fails My sick desire, old friendships fled away. I am much vexed with loss. Kind Memory, lay My head upon thy lap and tell me tales.’ “He was a very young man when he wrote these lines,” said Framlingham, “and the only criticism I would offer, is, that I should prefer ‘close’ of day to ‘shut’ of day. What say you?” After dinner that evening, when Mrs. Massarene had retired to her room not to offend a governor, who was spoken of as a future governor-general, by the sight of her nodding and dozing, Katherine turned to her guest and said briefly-- “I will tell you now what my wishes are, and what my one doubt is.”