I laughed at him, and laid my hand upon his horse’s bridle. “I can assure you that it isn’t,” I declared. “I was very glad to see you indeed. Please get down, you have too much an advantage of me up there.” He got down at once, but his face had not altogether cleared. “Look here, Miss Ffolliot,” he said, looking at me steadfastly out of his keen, grey eyes, “I do not wish to have you talk to me in that way about that young woman. I do not think it is quite fair. I suppose it is what girls call chaff, but you will kindly remember that I am too stupid, if you like, always to know when you are in earnest and when you are not, so please don’t do it. If I am with Miss Berdenstein at all please remember that it is for your sake. I hate reminding you of it, but you make me.” “You are quite right, Mr. Deville,” I said. “Please do not think that I am not grateful. Now let me tell you the news. My father has gone away.” “Gone away! Where? For how long?” he said, quickly. “He has gone first to London,” I answered; “where he was going to afterwards he did not seem absolutely sure himself. He spoke of going to the sea somewhere for a vacation. We are trying to arrange for him not to come back here at all. I should like him to go straight to Eastminster.” “It is a great relief,” he said, promptly; “it was the very best thing he could do. He did not even tell you that he was going then?” “I had no idea of it. He went quite suddenly while I was out. We had a letter from him this morning. I wonder--what she will say?” “I do not think that she will trouble to go in search of him,” he answered. “I do not think that her suspicions are really aroused in connection with your father. She is an odd, changeable sort of girl. I daresay she will give up this quest before long.” “I hope so,” I answered. “It would be a great relief to have her go away.” There was a short silence between us. We were standing by the Vicarage gate, and my hand was upon the latch. “I wonder,” he said, abruptly, “whether you would not walk a little way with me. It is such a fine day, and you look a little pale.” I hesitated. “But you are riding,” I said. “That is nothing,” he answered, briskly. “Diana follows me like a lamb. We will walk along the avenue. I want you to see the elm trees at the top.” We started off at once. There was nothing very remarkable about that walk, and yet I have always thought of it as a very memorable one. It gave a distinct color to certain new ideas of mine concerning my companion. We talked all the time, and that morning confirmed my altering impressions of him. Lady Naselton had spoken of him as rough and uncultured. He was neither. His lonely life and curious brusqueness were really only developed from mannerism into something more marked by a phase of that intellectual tiredness which most men ape but few feel. He had tried life, and it had disappointed him, but there was a good deal more of the cosmopolitan than the “yokel” in him.