'I should make shift to do very well.'

'You? And please--what of Dora and me?'

'You would write Sunday-school prizes.'

Maud turned away and left him.

He knocked the dust out of the pipe he had been smoking, and
again set off for a stroll along the lanes. On his countenance
was just a trace of solicitude, but for the most part he wore a
thoughtful smile. Now and then he stroked his smoothly-shaven
jaws with thumb and fingers. Occasionally he became observant of
wayside details--of the colour of a maple leaf, the shape of a
tall thistle, the consistency of a fungus. At the few people who
passed he looked keenly, surveying them from head to foot.

On turning, at the limit of his walk, he found himself almost
face to face with two persons, who were coming along in silent
companionship; their appearance interested him. The one was a man
of fifty, grizzled, hard featured, slightly bowed in the
shoulders; he wore a grey felt hat with a broad brim and a decent
suit of broadcloth. With him was a girl of perhaps two-and-
twenty, in a slate-coloured dress with very little ornament, and
a yellow straw hat of the shape originally appropriated to males;
her dark hair was cut short, and lay in innumerable crisp curls.
Father and daughter, obviously. The girl, to a casual eye, was
neither pretty nor beautiful, but she had a grave and impressive
face, with a complexion of ivory tone; her walk was gracefully
modest, and she seemed to be enjoying the country air.