could hardly affect such a veteran. But
he was painfully disconcerted by Redworth's determination not to
entrust the ladies any farther to his guidance. Danvers had implored
for permission to walk the mile to the town, and thence take a fly to
Copsley. Her mistress rather sided with the postillion; who begged them
to spare him the disgrace of riding in and delivering a box at the Red
Lion.

'What'll they say? And they know Arthur Dance well there,' he groaned.
'What! Arthur! chariotin' a box! And me a better man to his work now
than I been for many a long season, fit for double the journey! A bit of
a shake always braces me up. I could read a newspaper right off, small
print and all. Come along, sir, and hand the ladies in.'

Danvers vowed her thanks to Mr. Redworth for refusing. They walked
ahead; the postillion communicated his mixture of professional and human
feelings to the waggoners, and walked his horses in the rear, meditating
on the weak-heartedness of gentryfolk, and the means for escaping being
chaffed out of his boots at the Old Red Lion, where he was to eat,
drink, and sleep that night. Ladies might be fearsome after a bit of a
shake; he would not have supposed it of a gentleman. He jogged himself
into an arithmetic of the number of nips of liquor he had taken to
soothe him on the road, in spite of the gentleman. 'For some of 'em are
sworn enemies of poor men, as yonder one, ne'er a doubt.'

Diana enjoyed her walk beneath the lingering brown-red of the frosty
November sunset, with the scent of sand-earth strong in the air.

'I had to hire a chariot because there was no two-horse carriage,' said
Redworth, 'and I wished to reach Copsley as early as possible.'

She replied, smiling, that accidents were fated. As a certain marriage
had been! The comparison forced itself on her reflections.

'But this is quite an adventure,' said she, reanimated by the brisker
flow of her blood. 'We ought really to be thankful for it, in days when
nothing happens.'

Redworth accused her of getting that idea from the perusal of romances.

'Yes, our lives require compression, like romances, to be interesting,
and we object to the process,' she said. 'Real happiness is a state of
dulness. When we taste it consciously it becomes mortal--a thing of the
Seasons. But I like my walk. How long these November sunsets burn, and
what hues they have! There is a scientific reason, only don't tell it
me. Now I understand why you always