who had driven down
with Rochester, passed them soon after they had left the station. They
were alone in the country lane, alone behind a fat pony, who had ideas
of his own as to what was the proper pace to travel on a warm spring
afternoon.

More than once he looked at her. Her oval face was almost devoid of
color. There were rings underneath her large soft eyes. Her dark hair
was brushed simply back from her forehead. Her travelling clothes were
of the plainest. Yet she was always beautiful--more so than ever just
now, perhaps, when the slight hardness had gone from her mouth, and
the strain had passed from her features.

Rochester, too, was curiously altered by the change in the curve of
his lips. There was a new smile there, a new light in his eyes as they
jogged on between the honeysuckle-wreathed hedges. Their silence was
even curiously protracted, but underneath the holland apron his left
hand was clasping hers.

"How are things with you?" she asked softly.

"About the same," he answered. "We make the best of it, you know. Mary
amuses herself easily enough. She has what she wanted--a home, and I
have someone to entertain my guests. I believe that we are considered
quite a model couple."

Pauline sighed.

"Henry," she said, "it is beautiful to be here, to be here with you.
The days will not seem long enough."

Rochester, so apt of speech, seemed curiously tongue-tied. His fingers
pressed hers. He made no answer. She leaned a little forward and
looked into his face.

"Wonderful person!" she declared. "Never a line or a wrinkle!"

He smiled.

"I live quietly," he said. "I am out of doors all day. Excitement of
any sort has not touched my life for many years. Sometimes I feel that
this perfect health is a torture. Sometimes I am afraid of never
growing old."

She laughed very softly--a dear, familiar sound it was to him. He
turned his head to watch the curve of the lips that he loved, the
faint contraction of her eyebrows as the smile spread.

"You dear man!" she murmured. "To look at you makes me feel quite
_passee_."

"The _Daily Telegraph_ should reassure you," he answered. "I read this
morning that the most beautiful woman at the Opera last night was Lady
Marrabel."

"The _Daily Telegraph_ man is such a delightful creature," she
answered. "I do not like reporters, but I fancy that I must once have
been civil to this one by mistake. Henry, you have had the road
shortened. I am perfectly certai