conversation was all yes and no, as if it went on a pair of crutches like
a miserable cripple. I was humiliated and vexed. All the while I was
trying to lead up to the French lady, and I could not commence with a
single question. He appears to, have really cancelled the past in every
respect save his calling me his goddaughter. His talk was of the English
poor, and vegetation, and papa's goodness to his old dames in Ickleworth
parish, and defects in my education acknowledged by me, but not likely to
restore me in my depressed state. The ride was beautiful. We went the
length of a twelve-mile ridge between Ickleworth and Hillford, over high
commons, with immense views on both sides, and through beech-woods,
oakwoods, and furzy dells and downs spotted with juniper and yewtrees--
old picnic haunts of mine, but Mr. Pollingray's fresh delight in the
landscape made them seem new and strange. Home through the valley.

The next day Miss Pollingray joined us, wearing a feutre gris and green
plume, which looked exceedingly odd until you became accustomed to it.
Her hair has decided gray streaks, and that, and the Queen Elizabeth
nose, and the feutre gris!--but she is so kind, I could not even smile in
my heart. It is singular that Mr. Pollingray, who's but three years her
junior, should look at least twenty years younger--at the very least.
His moustache and beard are of the colour of a corn sheaf, and his blue
eyes shining over them remind me of summer. That describes him. He is
summer, and has not fallen into his autumn yet. Miss Pollingray helped
me to talk a little. She tried to check her brother's enthusiasm for our
scenery, and extolled the French paysage. He laughed at her, for when
they were in France it was she who used to say, 'There is nothing here
like England!' Miss Fool rode between them attentive to the jingling of
the bells in her cap: 'Yes' and 'No' at anybody's command, in and out of
season.