walk with Lucy Grainger--or I go down to Hallam's--or
go home," she answered.

"You don't go walks with the fellows, then?"

"Father would never have it," she replied.

"What will he say now?" he asked, with self-satisfaction.

"Goodness knows!" she laughed.

"Goodness usually does," he answered archly.

When they came to the rather stumbly railway, he said:

"Won't you take my arm?"--offering her the said member.

"Oh, I'm all right," she said. "Thanks."

"Go on," he said, pressing a little nearer to her, and offering his
arm. "There's nothing against it, is there?"

"Oh, it's not that," she said.

And feeling in a false position, she took his arm, rather
unwillingly. He drew a little nearer to her, and walked with a
slight prance.

"We get on better, don't we?" he said, giving her hand the tiniest
squeeze with his arm against his side.

"Much!" she replied, with a laugh.

Then he lowered his voice oddly.

"It's many a day since I was on this railroad," he said.

"Is this one of your old walks?" she asked, malicious.

"Yes, I've been it once or twice--with girls that are all married
now."

"Didn't you want to marry?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I may have done. But it never came off, somehow.
I've sometimes thought it never would come off."

"Why?"

"I don't know, exactly. It didn't seem to, you know. Perhaps neither
of us was properly inclined."

"I should think so," she said.

"And yet," he admitted slyly, "I should _like_ to marry--" To this
she did not answer.

"Shouldn't you?" he continued.

"When I meet the right man," she laughed.

"That's it," he said. "There, that's just it! And you _haven't_ met
him?" His voice seemed smiling with a sort of triumph, as if he had
caught her out.

"Well--once I thought I had--when I was engaged to Alexander."

"But you found you were mistaken?" he insisted.

"No. Mother was so ill at the time--"

"There's always something to consider," he said.

She kept on wondering what she should do if he wanted to kiss her.
The mere incongruity of such a desire on his part formed a problem.
Luckily, for this evening he formulated no desire, but left her in
the shop-door soon after nine, with the request:

"I shall see you in the week, shan't I?"

"I'm not sure. I can't promise now," she said hurriedly.
"Good-night."

What she felt chiefly about him was a decentralized perplexity, very
much akin to no feeling at all.

"Who do you think too