drive on the
boulevards.

"And we shall really be in Paris to-morrow night?" said Dora. "And in
England, I hope, six-and-thirty hours afterwards. I want papa to cross
the next evening. Mr. Ellerton, I believe we shall be in time."

Charlie said nothing. He seemed to be engrossed by the magnificent view
before him.

"Well? Have you nothing to say?" she asked.

"It's a sin to rush through a place like this," he observed. "We ought
to stay a week. There's no end to see. It's an education!"

By way, probably, of making the most of his brief opportunity, he went
on gazing, across the river which flowed below, now towards the heights
of Mont Ventoux, now at the ramparts of Villeneuve. Dora, on the other
hand, fixed pensive eyes on his curly hatless head, which leant forward
as he rested his elbows on his knees. He had referred to the
attractions of Avignon in tones of almost overpowering emotion.

Presently he turned his head towards her with a quick jerk.

"I don't want to be in time," he said, and, with equal rapidity, he
returned to his survey of Villeneuve.

Dora made no answer, unless a perplexed wrinkle on her brow might serve
for one. A long silence followed. It was broken at last by Charlie. He
left the landscape with a sigh of satisfaction, as though he could not
reproach himself with having neglected it, and directed his gaze into
his companion's eyes. Dora blushed and pulled the brim of her hat a
little lower down over her brow.

"What's more," said Charlie, in deliberate tones, and as if no pause
had occurred between this remark and his last, "I don't believe you do."

Dora started and straightened herself in her seat; it looked as if the
rash remark were to be met with a burst of indignation, but, a second
later, she leant back again and smiled scornfully.

"How can you be so silly, Mr. Ellerton?" she asked.

"We both of us," pursued Charlie, "see now that we made up our minds to
be very foolish; we both of us mistook our real feelings; we're
beginning--at least I began some time ago, and you're beginning now--to
understand the true state of affairs."

"Oh, I know what you mean, and I ought to be very angry, I suppose; but
it's too absurd."

"Not in the least. The absurd thing is your fancying that you care
about this follow Ashforth."

"No, you must really stop, you must indeed. I don't----"

"I know the sort of fellow he is--a dull dry chap, who makes love as if
he was dancing a minuet."