later. Will you hear what I have to say now?"

There was a very short silence.

"Anne," said Dolly, "now that we can hear ourselves speak, will you tell
me again the tale that you began last night?"

She said it, not at all lightly, but with a coldness and a distilled
kind of anger that gave me no choice. I lifted my hat a little; shook my
reins; and once more took up my position ten yards ahead. There was a
low murmur of voices behind; and then silence. It appeared that the tale
was not to be told after all.

* * * * *

We dined, very late, at a little inn, called the _Cross-Keys_, between
Edmonton and Ware. I remember nothing at all, either of the inn or the
host or the food--nothing but the name of the inn, for the name struck
me, with a dreary kind of wit, as reflective of the cross-purposes which
we were at. We three dined together, in profound silence, except when
Dolly addressed a word or two to her maid. As for me, she took the food
which I carved, all as if I were a servant, without even such a
thank-you as a man gives to a servant.

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