arm day, and a torpid
peace began to settle down on the carriage.

Soon only Garnet, the Irishman, and the lady were awake.

"What's your book, me dear?" asked the Irishman.

"'The Maneuvers of Arthur,' father," said Phyllis. "By Jeremy Garnet."

Garnet would not have believed without the evidence of his ears that
his name could possibly have sounded so well.

"Dolly Strange gave it to me when I left the abbey," continued
Phyllis. "She keeps a shelf of books for her guests when they are
going away. Books that she considers rubbish and doesn't want, you
know."

Garnet hated Dolly Strange without further evidence.

"And what do you think of it, me dear?"

"I like it," said Phyllis decidedly. The carriage swam before
Garnet's eyes. "I think it is very clever. I shall keep it."

"Bless you," thought Garnet, "and I will write my precious autograph
on every page, if you want it."

"I wonder who Jeremy Garnet is?" said Phyllis. "I imagine him rather
an old young man, probably with an eyeglass and conceited. He must be
conceited. I can tell that from the style. And I should think he
didn't know many girls. At least, if he thinks Pamela Grant an
ordinary sort of girl."

"Is she not?" asked her father.

"She's a cr-r-reature," said Phyllis emphatically.

This was a blow to Garnet, and demolished the self-satisfaction which
her earlier criticisms had caused to grow within him. He had always
looked on Pamela as something very much out of the ordinary run of
feminine character studies. That scene between her and the curate in
the conservatory.... And when she finds Arthur at the meet of the
Blankshire.... He was sorry she did not like Pamela. Somehow it
lowered Pamela in his estimation.

"But I like Arthur," said Phyllis, and she smiled--the first time
Garnet had seen her do so.

Garnet also smiled to himself. Arthur was the hero. He was a young
writer. Ergo, Arthur was himself.

The train was beginning to slow down. Signs of returning animation
began to be noticeable among the sleepers. A whistle from the engine,
and the train drew up in a station. Looking out of the window, Garnet
saw that it was Yeovil. There was a general exodus. Aunty became
instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels, shook
Albert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finally headed a
stampede out of the door.

To Garnet's chagrin the Irish gentleman and his daughter also rose.
Apparently this was to be the end of t