t on the back
seat of a dog-cart whilst Edward drove the girl to the railway station
from which she was to take her departure to India. They wanted, I
suppose, to have a witness of the calmness of that function. The girl's
luggage had been already packed and sent off before. Her berth on the
steamer had been taken. They had timed it all so exactly that it went
like clockwork. They had known the date upon which Colonel Rufford would
get Edward's letter and they had known almost exactly the hour at which
they would receive his telegram asking his daughter to come to him. It
had all been quite beautifully and quite mercilessly arranged, by Edward
himself. They gave Colonel Rufford, as a reason for telegraphing, the
fact that Mrs Colonel Somebody or other would be travelling by that ship
and that she would serve as an efficient chaperon for the girl. It was a
most amazing business, and I think that it would have been better in
the eyes of God if they had all attempted to gouge out each other's eyes
with carving knives. But they were "good people". After my interview
with Leonora I went desultorily into Edward's gun-room. I didn't know
where the girl was and I thought I mind find her there. I suppose I had
a vague idea of proposing to her in spite of Leonora. So, I presume,
I don't come of quite such good people as the Ashburnhams. Edward was
lounging in his chair smoking a cigar and he said nothing for quite five
minutes. The candles glowed in the green shades; the reflections were
green in the glasses of the book-cases that held guns and fishing-rods.
Over the mantelpiece was the brownish picture of the white horse. Those
were the quietest moments that I have ever known. Then, suddenly, Edward
looked me straight in the eyes and said:

"Look here, old man, I wish you would drive with Nancy and me to the
station tomorrow."

I said that of course I would drive with him and Nancy to the station on
the morrow. He lay there for a long time, looking along the line of his
knees at the fluttering fire, and then suddenly, in a perfectly calm
voice, and without lifting his eyes, he said:

"I am so desperately in love with Nancy Rufford that I am dying of it."

Poor devil--he hadn't meant to speak of it. But I guess he just had to
speak to somebody and I appeared to be like a woman or a solicitor. He
talked all night.

Well, he carried out the programme to the last breath.

It was a very clear winter morning, with a good deal of