"I thank your ladyship."

The two walked farther. Ripton had heard some little of the colloquy.
He left the spot in a serious mood, apprehensive of something dark to the
people he loved, though he had no idea of what the Hon. Peter's
stipulation involved.

On the voyage back to town, Richard was again selected to sit by Mrs.
Mount. Brayder and Adrian started the jokes. The pair of parasites got
on extremely well together. Soft fell the plash of the oars; softly the
moonlight curled around them; softly the banks glided by. The ladies
were in a state of high sentiment. They sang without request. All
deemed the British ballad-monger an appropriate interpreter of their
emotions. After good wine, and plenty thereof, fair throats will make
men of taste swallow that remarkable composer. Eyes, lips, hearts; darts
and smarts and sighs; beauty, duty; bosom, blossom; false one, farewell!
To this pathetic strain they melted. Mrs. Mount, though strongly
requested, declined to sing. She preserved her state. Under the tall
aspens of Brentford-ait, and on they swept, the white moon in their wake.
Richard's hand lay open by his side. Mrs. Mount's little white hand by
misadventure fell into it. It was not pressed, or soothed for its fall,
or made intimate with eloquent fingers. It lay there like a bit of snow
on the cold ground. A yellow leaf wavering down from the aspens struck
Richard's cheek, and he drew away the very hand to throw back his hair
and smooth his face, and then folded his arms, unconscious of offence.
He was thinking ambitiously of his life: his blood was untroubled, his
brain calmly working.

"Which is the more perilous?" is a problem put by the Pilgrim: "To meet