thought they had quarrelled," said Richard. "What a pity!" and he
murmured to a pleased ear:

"Beauty's for the largest heart!"

The flow of their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of
passengers at a station. Richard examined their faces with pleasure. All
faces pleased him. Human nature sat tributary at the feet of him and his
Golden Bride. As he could not well talk his thoughts before them, he
looked out at the windows, and enjoyed the changing landscape, projecting
all sorts of delights for his old friend Ripton, and musing hazily on the
wondrous things he was to do in the world; of the great service he was to
be to his fellow-creatures. In the midst of his reveries he was landed in
London. Tom Bakewell stood at the carriage door. A glance told Richard
that his squire had something curious on his mind; and he gave Tom the
word to speak out. Tom edged his master out of hearing, and began
sputtering a laugh.

"Dash'd if I can help it, sir!" he said. "That young Tom! He've come to
town dressed that spicy! and he don't know his way about no more than a
stag. He's come to fetch somebody from another rail, and he don't know
how to get there, and he ain't sure about which rail 'tis. Look at him,
Mr. Richard! There he goes."

Young Tom appeared to have the weight of all London on his beaver.

"Who has he come for?" Richard asked.

"Don't you know, sir? You don't like me to mention the name," mumbled
Tom, bursting to be perfectly intelligible.

"Is it for her, Tom?"

"Miss Lucy, sir."

Richard turned away, and was seized by Hippias, who begged him to get out
of the noise and pother, and caught hold of his slack arm to bear him
into a conveyance; but Richard, by wheeling half to the right, or left,
always got his face round to the point where young Tom was manoeuvring to
appear at his ease. Even when they were seated in the conveyance, Hippias
could not persuade him to drive off. He made the excuse that he did not
wish to start till there was a clear road. At last young Tom cast anchor
by a policeman, and, doubtless at the official's suggestion, bashfully
took seat in a cab, and was shot into the whirlpool of London. Richard
then angrily asked his driver what he was waiting for.

"Are you ill, my boy?" said Hippias. "Where's your colour?"

He laughed oddly, and made a random answer that he hoped the fellow would
drive fast.

"I hate slow motion after being in the railway," he said.

Hippias a