Mr. Quayle put in again.

"Now, it seems to me, that"--Honoria extended one hand towards the
sunset--"is Cousin Katherine's outlook on life and humanity, full of
colour, full of warmth. It burns with a certain prodigality of beauty,
a superb absence of economy in giving. And that"--with a little shrug
of her shoulders she turned towards the severe, and sombre, eastern
landscape--"that, it strikes me, comes a good deal nearer my own. Which
is best?"

Mr. Quayle congratulated himself upon the removal of his shoes. The
ground was holy--holy to the point of embarrassment even to so
unabashable and ready-tongued a gentleman as himself. He answered with
an unusual degree of diffidence.

"An intermediate position is neither wholly inconceivable nor wholly
untenable, perhaps."

"And you occupy it? Yes, you are very neatly balanced. But then, do you
really get anywhere?"

"Is not that a rather knavish speech, dear Miss St. Quentin?" the young
man inquired mildly.

"I don't know," she answered, "I wish to goodness I did."

Now was here god-given opportunity, or merely a cunningly devised snare
for the taking of the unwary? Ludovic pondered the matter. He gently
kicked a little pebble from the dingy gray-drab of the asphalt on to
the permanent way. It struck one of the metals with a sharp click. A
blue-linen-clad porter, short of stature and heavy of build, lighted
the gas lamps along the platform. The flame of these wavered at first,
and flickered, showing thin and will-o'-the-wisp-like against the great
outspread of darkening country across which the wind came with a
certain effect of harshness and barrenness--the inevitable concomitant
of its inherent purity. And the said wind treated Miss St. Quentin
somewhat discourteously, buffeting her, obliging her to put up both
hands to push back stray locks of hair. Also the keen breath of it
pierced her, making her shiver a little. Both of which things her
companion noting, took heart of grace.

"Is it permitted to renew a certain petition?" he asked, in a low
voice.

Honoria shook her head.

"Better not, I think," she said.

"And yet, dear Miss St. Quentin, pulverised though I am by the weight
of my own unworthiness, I protest that petition is not wholly foreign
to the question you did me the honour to ask me just now."

"Oh! dear me! You always contrive to bring it round to that!" she
exclaimed, not without a hint of petulance.

"Far from it," the young man returne