discretion with which she was obliged to conduct herself.

While she mused thus, a profound discouragement settling on her
sweet face, some one took a seat by her--on the same bench, that
is to say. Glancing aside, she saw that it was an oldish man, with
grizzled whiskers and rather a stern visage. Monica sighed.

Was it possible that he had heard her? He looked this way, and with
curiosity. Ashamed of herself, she kept her eyes averted for a long
time. Presently, following the movement of a boat, her face turned
unconsciously towards the silent companion; again he was looking at
her, and he spoke. The gravity of his appearance and manner, the
good-natured commonplace that fell from his lips, could not alarm
her; a dialogue began, and went on for about half an hour.

How old might he be? After all, he was probably not fifty--
perchance not much more than forty. His utterance fell short of
perfect refinement, but seemed that of an educated man. And
certainly his clothes were such as a gentleman wears. He had thin,
hairy hands, unmarked by any effect of labour; the nails could not
have been better cared for. Was it a bad sign that he carried
neither gloves nor walking-stick?

His talk aimed at nothing but sober friendliness; it was perfectly
inoffensive--indeed, respectful. Now and then--not too often--
he fixed his eyes upon her for an instant. After the introductory
phrases, he mentioned that he had had a long drive, alone; his horse
was baiting in preparation for the journey back to London. He often
took such drives in the summer, though generally on a weekday; the
magnificent sky had tempted him out this morning. He lived at Herne