Reginald Morton had been twice over at Mrs. Masters’ house with reference to the proposed journey.  Mrs. Masters was hardly civil to him, as he was supposed to be among the enemies;—­but she had no suspicion that he himself was the enemy of enemies.  Had she entertained such an idea she might have reconciled herself to it, as the man was able to support a wife, and by such a marriage she would have been at once relieved from all further charge.  In her own mind she would have felt very strongly that Mary had chosen the wrong man, and thrown herself into the inferior mode of life.  But her own difficulties in the matter would have been solved.  There was, however, no dream of such a kind entertained by any of the family.  Reginald Morton was hardly regarded as a young man, and was supposed to be gloomy, misanthropic, and bookish.  Mrs. Masters was not at all averse to the companionship for the journey, and Mr. Masters was really grateful to one of the old family for being kind to his girl.

Nor must it be supposed that Mary herself had any expectations or even any hopes.  With juvenile aptness to make much of the little things which had interested her, and prone to think more than was reasonable of any intercourse with a man who seemed to her to be so superior to others as Reginald Morton, she was anxious for an opportunity to set herself right with him about that scene at the bridge.  She still thought that he was offended and that she had given him cause for offence.  He had condescended to make her a request to which she had acceded,—­and she had then not done as she had promised.  She thought she was sure that this was all she had to say to him, and yet she was aware that she was unnaturally excited at the idea of spending three or four hours alone with him.  The fly which was to take him to the railway station called for Mary at the attorney’s door at ten o’clock, and the attorney handed her in.  “It is very good of you indeed, Mr. Morton, to take so much trouble with my girl,” said the attorney, really feeling what he said.  “It is very good of you to trust her to me,” said Reginald, also sincerely.  Mary was still to him the girl who had been brought up by his aunt at Bragton, and not the fit companion for Larry Twentyman.

Reginald Morton had certainly not made up his mind to ask Mary Masters to be his wife.  Thinking of Mary Masters very often as he had done during the last two months, he was quite sure that he did not mean to marry at all.  He did acknowledge to himself that were he to allow himself to fall in love with any one it would be with Mary Masters,—­but for not doing so there were many reasons.  He had lived so long alone that a married life would not suit him; as a married man he would be a poor man; he himself was averse to company, whereas most women prefer society.  And then, as to this special girl, had he not reason for supposing that she preferred another man to him, and a man of such a class that the very preference showed her to be unfit to mate with him?  He also cozened himself with an idea that it was well that he should have the opportunity which the journey would give him of apologising for his previous rudeness to her.