We took the road again, about three o’clock; and even then the day was beginning to draw in a little, very bleak and dismal; and that, too, I took as a symbol of my heart within, and of my circumstances and prospects.  Certainly I had gained my desire in one way; I had got Dolly away from Court; yet that was the single point I had to congratulate myself upon.  All else, it appeared, was ruined.  I had lost all the advantage, or very nearly all, that I had ever won from the King—­(for I knew, that although he had been merry at the end of the time, he would not forget how I had worsted him)—­and as for Dolly, I supposed she would never speak to me again.  It had been bad enough when I had left Hare Street nearly a twelvemonth ago:  my return to it now was a hundred times worse.

Although Dolly, however, would not speak to me, I was entirely determined to speak to Dolly.  I proposed to rehearse to her what I had done, and why; and when that was over, I would leave it in her hands whether I remained at Hare Street a day or two, or left again next morning.  More than a day or two, I did not even hope for.  I had insulted her—­it seemed—­beyond forgiveness.  Yet, besides my miserableness, there was something very like pleasure as well, though of a grim sort.  I had spoken my mind to her, pretty well, and would do so more explicitly; and I was to speak my mind very well indeed to her father.  There was a real satisfaction to me in that prospect.  Then, once more, I would shut the door for ever on Hare Street, and go back again to town, and begin all over again at the beginning, and try to retrieve a little of what I had lost.  Such then were my thoughts.

We supped, at Ware—­at the Saracen’s Head, and the same wretched performance was gone through as at the Cross-Keys.  Night was fallen completely; and we had candles that guttered not a little.  Dolly was silent, however, this time, even to her maid.  She did not give me one look, all through supper.

When I came out afterwards to the horses, the yard was all in a mist:  I could see no more than a spot of light where the lamp should be by the stable-door.  The host came with me.

“It has fallen very foggy, sir,” he said.  “Would it not be best to stay the night?”

I was considering the point before answering; but my cousin answered for me, from behind.

“Nonsense,” said she.  “I know every step of the way.  Where are the horses?”

(Even that, I observed, she said to the host and not to me.)

“The lady is impatient to get home,” I said.  “Is the fog likely to spread far?”

“It may be from here to Cambridge, sir,” he said—­“at this time of the year.”

“Where are the horses?” said Dolly again.

There was no help for it.  Once more we mounted; Dolly, again, assisted by the host, and not by me:  but Anne was gracious enough to accept my ministrations.