“Do you think it is a matter of knowledge?” he asked, “or inclination?  If it comes to knowledge I should say you had a rather remarkable stock of an unusual sort, and at first hand.  That may not be what is required for a complete drawing-room success, though I am not sure that it is not more interesting—­say for an excursion—­than a flitting glance at the subjects you mention, and about eighteen or twenty more that you did not.”

Julia looked up, half pleased, doubtful as to whether or not to interpret this as a compliment; she never knew quite how much he meant of what he said; his manner was exactly the same, whether he was in fun or in earnest.  But if she thought of asking him now she was prevented, for at that moment Mr. Gillat’s watch slipped out of her belt into her lap, and she saw the time.

“How late is it!” she exclaimed.  “We ought to have started half-an-hour ago; it will take me two hours, and more, to get home from here, even if I go by the tram in the town.”

She rose as she spoke, and he rose more slowly.

“Shall I take your flowers for you?” he asked.  “They seem rather inclined to tumble about; don’t you think they would be safer in my pocket?  As you say you are going to dry them, it won’t matter crushing them.”

She gave them to him, and he put the sweet-smelling bunch into his pocket, then they started for the edge of the wood.

“It is much colder,” Julia said; “and the sun is all gone; I suppose the clouds have been coming gradually, but I did not notice before.  If it is going to rain, we shall get decidedly wet before we get back.”

“I am afraid so,” he agreed; “you have no coat.”

She told him that did not matter, she did not mind getting wet, and she spoke with a cheerful buoyancy that carried conviction.

When they reached the outskirts of the wood, however, they saw there was not much chance of rain, but a much worse evil threatened.  All the distance on the seaward side was blotted out, a fine white mist shut out the curving land in that direction.  It was blowing up towards them, rolling down the little hills in billowy puffs, and lying filmy, yet dense, in the hollows, moved by a wind unfelt here.

“A sea fog,” Julia said; “I wonder how far it is coming.”

Rawson-Clew wondered too; he thought, as she did, that there was every chance of its coming far and fast, but it did not seem necessary to either of them to say anything so unpleasantly and obviously probable.

They set out homewards as fast as they could; it was a long way to the place where they had climbed up, unfortunately all across open country, entirely without roads or definite paths, and the drifting sea fog was coming up fast, bound, it would seem, the same way.  Soon it was upon them; they felt its advance in the chill that, like cold fingers, laid hold on everything; it came quite silently up from behind, without noticeable wind, eerily creeping up and enfolding