o walk up and down, much less quickly than Clare had been
walking when alone. They seemed to have nothing to say to each other.
Johnstone remarked that he thought it would not rain again just then,
and after some minutes of reflection Clare said that she remembered
having seen two thunderstorms within an hour, with a clear sky between,
not long ago. Johnstone also thought the matter over for some time
before he answered, and then said that he supposed the clouds must have
been somewhere in the meantime--an observation which did not strike
either Clare or even himself as particularly intelligent.

"I don't think you know much about thunderstorms," said Clare, after
another silence.

"I? No--why should I?"

"I don't know. It's supposed to be just as well to know about things,
isn't it?"

"I dare say," answered Brook, indifferently. "But science isn't exactly
in my line, if I have any line."

They recrossed the platform in silence.

"What is your line--if you have any?" Clare asked, looking at the ground
as she walked, and perfectly indifferent as to his answer.

"It ought to be beer," answered Brook, gravely. "But then, you know how
it is--one has all sorts of experts, and one ends by taking their word
for granted about it. I don't believe I have any line--unless it's in
the way of out-of-door things. I'm fond of shooting, and I can ride
fairly, you know, like anybody else."

"Yes," said Clare, "you were telling me so the other day, you know."

"Yes," Johnstone murmured thoughtfully, "that's true. Please excuse me.
I'm always repeating myself."

"I didn't mean that." Her tone changed a little. "You can be very
amusing when you like, you know."

"Thanks, awfully. I should like to be amusing now, for instance, but I
can't."

"Now? Why now?"

"Because I'm boring you to madness, little by little, and I'm awfully
sorry too, for I want you to like me--though you say you never will--and
of course you can't like a bore, can you? I say, Miss Bowring, don't you
think we could strike some sort of friendly agreement--to be friends
without 'liking,' somehow? I'm beginning to hate the word. I believe
it's the colour of my hair or my coat--or something--that you dislike
so. I wish you'd tell me. It would be much kinder. I'd go to work and
change it--"

"Dye your hair?" Clare laughed, glad that the ice was broken again.

"Oh yes--if you like," he answered, laughing too. "Anything to please
you."

"Anything 'in reaso