peaked cap; he wore a plaid shawl swathed round him, his left arm being
enveloped in its folds; his right rested in the arm of his companion, who
was taller than he, lean and loose-built, clad in an almost white (and
very unseasonable looking) suit of some homespun material. He wore no
covering on his head, a thick crop of curly hair (of a color
indistinguishable in the dim light) presumably affording such protection
as he needed. His face was turned down towards the old man, who was
looking up at him and apparently talking to him, though in so low a tone
that no sound reached Mary and Cynthia as they passed by. Neither man
gave any sign of noticing their presence.

"Mr. Saffron, you said? Rather a queer name, but he looks a nice old man;
patriarchal, you know. What's the name of the other one?"

"I did hear; somebody mentioned him at the Naylors'--somebody who had
heard something about him in France. What was the name? It was something
queer too, I think."

"They've got queer names, and they live in a queer house!" Cynthia
actually gave a little laugh. "But are you going to walk all night,
Mary dear?"

"Oh, poor thing! I forgot you! You're tired? We'll turn back."

They retraced their steps, again passing Tower Cottage, into which its
occupants must have gone, for they were no longer to be seen.

"That name's on the tip of my tongue," said Mary in amused vexation. "I
shall get it in a moment!"