er she
had seemed to be in the summer.

Trix's visit began to appear to her somewhat in the light of a wild-goose
chase. Anyhow she had not given Pia the smallest hint as to why she was
coming. Naturally she could not possibly have done that. She had still to
invent some tangible excuse for her sudden desire to visit Woodleigh
again. Sick of London greyness would be quite good enough, though
certainly not entirely true. But possibly a slight deviation from truth
would be excusable under the circumstances. And she _was_ sick of London
greyness. The fog yesterday had got on her nerves altogether, though
quite probably it would not have done so if it had not been for Miss
Tibbutt's letter, which had made her feel so horribly restless. But then
there was no need to say why the fog had got on her nerves.

Yes; the fog would be excuse enough. And it was not an atom of good
worrying herself as to whether Miss Tibbutt had been right or wrong
regarding the idea communicated in her letter. If she were right it made
Trix unhappy to think about it, and if she were wrong it made Trix cross
to think she _had_ thought about it. So the wisest course was not to
think about it at all. But the difficulty was not to think about it.

Trix knew perfectly well that absurd little things had this power of
depressing her, and she wished they had not. She knew, also, that other
quite little things had the power of cheering her in equal proportion,
and she wished that one of these other things would happen now. But that
was not particularly likely.

The depression had been at its lowest ebb as they ran into Bath. It was,
however, slightly on the mend by the time Trix reached Exeter, though she
was still feeling that her journey had probably, if not certainly, been a
piece of pure foolishness on her part.

The carriage she was in was up in the front of the train. She was the
sole occupant thereof. She now put up something akin to a prayer that she
might remain in undisturbed possession. Apparently, however, the prayer
was not to be granted. A tall figure, masculine in character, suddenly
blocked the light from the window. Trix heaved a small sigh of patient
resignation.

"Good afternoon, Miss Devereux," said a voice.

Trix looked up. Her resignation took to itself wings and fled.

"Doctor Hilary!" she exclaimed.

Doctor Hilary heaved his big form into the carriage, and turned to take a
tea-basket from a porter just behind him. First tippi