He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded.  In the passage, the waiter met us with a paper box.  “For you, Miss.  A florist’s boy just left it.”  I opened it in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them—­a piece of one of my collar knots I had not missed.  Of course the flowers came from Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife.  Instead of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box.

“What a curious bouquet,” he said.

In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight.

“No vestige but these flowers,” uncovering them again.  “In my room at Surrey I will take you out,” and I shut the box.  The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles.  Then I looked out at the flying sky—­it was almost May.  The day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the old grass lay like coarse mats.  A few birds roved the air in anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished.  By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers from the cars.  I was the only lady “aboard,” as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we started.  They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other and silent to me.  We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach.  I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of beef.  When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and spat vehemently out of the windows.  I offered it to them.  They refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon, conducted on the strictest temperance principles.

“Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an aversion to Depot tea and coffee,” I said.

There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them turned and said:  “You have a good head, marm.”

“Too good?”

“Forgetful, may be.”

I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation.

“Your circulation is too rapid,” he continued.

The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me, informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me.

“Shoo!” he replied, “it’s a humbug.”