"The curate perhaps," Prudence returned flippantly. "Marriage with him would not be moonshine exactly, but it would be a trifle dull--just the distractions which the parish offered, and on Sundays his sermons to listen to." "There would be stimulation in the way of jealousy," Bobby suggested helpfully. "Think of all those women who work braces for him and lounge slippers. You'd have to compete, you know." "They cease all that when the curates marry," Prudence returned with disgust. "If they only kept it up there would be some excitement offering; but they don't." She turned and began to retrace her steps. "Goodness knows how we got on this topic! Your brain is love-sick, Bobby, and you're infecting me. If my memory serves me, there have been three ideal girls in your life already--and one of them was Mabel North." "Oh! that," said Bobby, colouring, "was all rot. This is the real thing." "It's always the real thing till the newer attraction comes along. You needn't resent that; it's true not only in your case. We are unstable as the waters which start from infinitesimal raindrops and run down in flood to the sea." Bobby chuckled. "Your image doesn't apply aptly to every one," he said. "One can't think of Uncle William in connexion with all that broiling strife." "Oh!" Prudence made a gesture which conveyed fairly adequately her contempt for the person referred to. "Some raindrops form into puddles, and the puddles cheat themselves into believing that they are the sea, and ridicule the idea of any expansion beyond their own muddy limits. William's is a complete little destiny in itself. And he never suspects the mud at the bottom because he never stirs it up." "How can you be sure of that?" Bobby inquired. "You are taking it too much for granted that the old boy's life is lived on the surface. He takes his annual holiday." "Well!" said Prudence, and turned her head and surveyed his grinning countenance with mixed emotions. "That's the most evil suggestion I've heard from you. I'm not fond of brother William, but I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself." He only laughed. "There's a bit of the old Adam in him as well as in the rest of us, I imagine," he said, and drew her hand within his arm affectionately. Thus, walking closely, they pursued their way along the dim country road which their childish feet had trodden and made familiar in its every aspect; which knew too the steadier tramp of their adolescent youth, and which in the near future was to know but seldom the lighter tread of the girl, whose feet stirred the unconscious dust that in the years ahead would lie undisturbed by her passing, when, in the pursuance of her destiny, the confined vista of her childhood, with its sense of security and dulness, should have become an elusive memory of drab and peaceful things. CHAPTER ELEVEN.