'Yes,' said Cytherea, colouring, and trying not to look guilty of a
surreptitious knowledge of him.

'I am Mr. Springrove. I passed Corvsgate Castle about an hour ago,
and soon afterwards met your brother going that way. He had been
deceived in the distance, and was about to turn without seeing the
ruin, on account of a lameness that had come on in his leg or foot.
I proposed that he should go on, since he had got so near; and
afterwards, instead of walking back to the boat, get across to
Anglebury Station--a shorter walk for him--where he could catch the
late train, and go directly home. I could let you know what he had
done, and allay any uneasiness.'

'Is the lameness serious, do you know?'

'O no; simply from over-walking himself. Still, it was just as well
to ride home.'

Relieved from her apprehensions on Owen's score, she was able
slightly to examine the appearance of her informant--Edward
Springrove--who now removed his hat for a while, to cool himself.
He was rather above her brother's height. Although the upper part
of his face and head was handsomely formed, and bounded by lines of
sufficiently masculine regularity, his brows were somewhat too
softly arched, and finely pencilled for one of his sex; without
prejudice, however, to the belief which the sum total of his
features inspired--that though they did not prove that the man who
thought inside them would do much in the world, men who had done
most of all had had no better ones. Across his forehead, otherwise