Now, then, to see whether he was wrong for the first time in his life!  If not wrong, he had a chance.

There could be nothing dishonourable in rescuing a girl from an engagement she detested.  An attempt to think it a service to Willoughby faded midway.  De Craye dismissed that chicanery.  It would be a service to Willoughby in the end, without question.  There was that to soothe his manly honour.  Meanwhile he had to face the thought of Willoughby as an antagonist, and the world looking heavy on his honour as a friend.

Such considerations drew him tenderly close to Miss Middleton.  It must, however, be confessed that the mental ardour of Colonel De Craye had been a little sobered by his glance at the possibility of both of the couple being of one mind on the subject of their betrothal.  Desirable as it was that they should be united in disagreeing, it reduced the romance to platitude, and the third person in the drama to the appearance of a stick.  No man likes to play that part.  Memoirs of the favourites of Goddesses, if we had them, would confirm it of men’s tastes in this respect, though the divinest be the prize.  We behold what part they played.

De Craye chanced to be crossing the hall from the laboratory to the stables when Clara shut the library-door behind her.  He said something whimsical, and did not stop, nor did he look twice at the face he had been longing for.

What he had seen made him fear there would be no ride out with her that day.  Their next meeting reassured him; she was dressed in her riding-habit, and wore a countenance resolutely cheerful.  He gave himself the word of command to take his tone from her.

He was of a nature as quick as Clara’s.  Experience pushed him farther than she could go in fancy; but experience laid a sobering finger on his practical steps, and bade them hang upon her initiative.  She talked little.  Young Crossjay cantering ahead was her favourite subject.  She was very much changed since the early morning:  his liveliness, essayed by him at a hazard, was unsuccessful; grave English pleased her best.  The descent from that was naturally to melancholy.  She mentioned a regret she had that the Veil was interdicted to women in Protestant countries.  De Craye was fortunately silent; he could think of no other veil than the Moslem, and when her meaning struck his witless head, he admitted to himself that devout attendance on a young lady’s mind stupefies man’s intelligence.  Half an hour later, he was as foolish in supposing it a confidence.  He was again saved by silence.

In Aspenwell village she drew a letter from her bosom and called to Crossjay to post it.  The boy sang out, “Miss Lucy Darleton!  What a nice name!”

Clara did not show that the name betrayed anything.

She said to De Craye.  “It proves he should not be here thinking of nice names.”

Her companion replied, “You may be right.”  He added, to avoid feeling too subservient:  “Boys will.”