to find its silhouette against the
sky. When they reached a plank he tried its strength with one foot
and then led the way across it, turning and waiting at the far end for
Colville to follow. It was unnecessary to warn him against a slip, for
the plank was no more than nine inches wide and shone white with rime.
Each foot must be secure before its fellow was lifted.

Colville, always ready to fall in with a companion's humour, ever quick
to understand the thoughts of others, respected his silence. Perhaps he
was not far from guessing the cause of it.

Loo was surprised to find that Dormer Colville was less antipathetic
than he had anticipated. For the last month, night and day, he had
dreaded Colville's arrival, and now that he was here he was almost glad
to see him; almost glad to quit Farlingford. And his heart was hot with
anger against Miriam.

Turner's offer had at all events been worth considering. Had he been
alone when it was made he would certainly have considered it; he would
have turned it this way and that. He would have liked to play with it as
a cat plays with a mouse, knowing all the while that he must refuse
in the end. Perhaps Turner had made the offer in Miriam's presence,
expecting to find in her a powerful ally. It was only natural for him
to think this. Ever since the beginning, men have assigned to women the
role of the dissuader, the drag, the hinderer. It is always the woman,
tradition tells us, who persuades the man to be a coward, to stay at
home, to shirk a difficult or a dangerous duty.

As a matter of fact, Turner had made this mistake. He had always
wondered why Miriam Liston elected to live at Farlingford when with her
wealth and connections, both in England and France, she might live a
gayer life elsewhere. There must, he reflected, be some reason for it.

When whosoever does anything slightly unconventional or leaves undone
what custom and gossip make almost obligatory, a relation or a mere
interfering neighbour is always at hand to wag her head and say there
must be some reason for it. Which means, of course, one specific reason.
And the worst of it is that she is nearly always right.

John Turner, laboriously putting two small numerals together, after his
manner, had concluded that Loo Barebone was the reason. Even banking
may, it seems, be carried on without the loss of all human weakness,
especially if the banker be of middle age, unmarried, and deprived by
an unromantic super