great arch of dingy glass, and was impressed by the slow solemnity of
Paddington, so different from the hysteria of Waterloo and frosty fog of
Euston. Trewhella, leaning on his blackthorn, talked to their father and
Mr. Corin, while the two girls ensconced themselves in the compartment.

"Take your seats," an official cried, and when Trewhella had got in, Mr.
Raeburn occupied the window with his last words.

"Well, I sha'n't go down to the shop to-day, not now. Let's have a line
to say you've arrived all safe. You know my address after I clear out of
Hagworth Street."

"So long, dad," said Jenny awkwardly. Neither she nor May had ever
within memory kissed their father, but on this last opportunity for
demonstrative piety they compromised with sentiment so far as each to
blow him a kiss when the train began to move, and in token of goodwill
to let for a little while a handkerchief flutter from the window.

There was no one else in the carriage besides themselves, and in the
stronger light that suddenly succeeds a train's freedom from stationary
dimness, Jenny thought how lonely they must look. To be sure, May's
company was a slight solace, but that could neither ease the constraint
of her attitude towards Trewhella nor remove the sense of imprisonment
created by his proximity. It was a new experience for her to be
compelled to meet a man at a disadvantage, although as yet the nearness
of freedom prevented the complete realization of oppression. Trewhella
himself seemed content to sit watching her, proud in the consciousness
of a legalized property.

So the green miles rolled by until the naked downs of Wiltshire first
hinted of a strange country, and in a view of them through the window
Trewhella seemed to gather from their rounded solitudes strength,
tasting already, as it were, the tang of the Cornish air.

"Well, my lovely, what do 'ee think of it all?"

"It's nice, I like it," replied Jenny.

Conversation faltered in the impossibility of discussing anything with
Trewhella, or even in his presence. Jenny turned her mind to the moment
of first addressing him as Zachary or Zack. She could not bring herself
to mouth this absurd name without an inward blush. She began to worry
over this problem of outward behavior, while the unusual initial twisted
itself into an arabesque at once laughable and alarming. And she was
Mrs. Z. Trewhella. Jenny began to scrabble on the pane filmed with smoke
the fantastic initial. As