“Not seriously, nobody doubts you being under shelter.  You will allow me to protect you?  My time is yours.”

“I was thinking of a running visit to my friend Miss Darleton.”

“May I venture?  I had the fancy that you wished to see Miss Darleton to-day.  You cannot make the journey unescorted.”

“Please retain the fly.  Where is Willoughby?”

“He is in jack-boots.  But may I not, Miss Middleton?  I shall never be forgiven if you refuse me.”

“There has been searching for me?”

“Some hallooing.  But why am I rejected?  Besides, I don’t require the fly; I shall walk if I am banished.  Flitch is a wonderful conjurer, but the virtue is out of him for the next four-and-twenty hours.  And it will be an opportunity to me to make my bow to Miss Darleton!”

“She is rigorous on the conventionalities, Colonel De Craye.”

“I’ll appear before her as an ignoramus or a rebel, whichever she likes best to take in leading-strings.  I remember her.  I was greatly struck by her.”

“Upon recollection!”

“Memory didn’t happen to be handy at the first mention of the lady’s name.  As the general said of his ammunition and transport, there’s the army!—­but it was leagues in the rear.  Like the footman who went to sleep after smelling fire in the house, I was thinking of other things.  It will serve me right to be forgotten—­if I am.  I’ve a curiosity to know:  a remainder of my coxcombry.  Not that exactly:  a wish to see the impression I made on your friend.—­None at all?  But any pebble casts a ripple.”

“That is hardly an impression,” said Clara, pacifying her irresoluteness with this light talk.

“The utmost to be hoped for by men like me!  I have your permission?—­one minute—­I will get my ticket.”

“Do not,” said Clara.

“Your man-servant entreats you!”

She signified a decided negative with the head, but her eyes were dreamy.  She breathed deep:  this thing done would cut the cord.  Her sensation of languor swept over her.

De Craye took a stride.  He was accosted by one of the railway-porters.  Flitch’s fly was in request for a gentleman.  A portly old gentleman bothered about luggage appeared on the landing.

“The gentleman can have it,” said De Craye, handing Flitch his money.

“Open the door.”  Clara said to Flitch.

He tugged at the handle with enthusiasm.  The door was open:  she stepped in.

“Then mount the box and I’ll jump up beside you,” De Craye called out, after the passion of regretful astonishment had melted from his features.

Clara directed him to the seat fronting her; he protested indifference to the wet; she kept the door unshut.  His temper would have preferred to buffet the angry weather.  The invitation was too sweet.