“It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently. Lord, but it was a nun! Just as he had suspected. And in its way it was very well. “Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. He said simply that he wanted her to live at home. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. “Why?” He inquired. Let him be sure. Creeping along quickly on his hands and knees, he found the entrance to a covered drain, into which he crept. Earles attended her obsequiously to the door. “I really do not believe,” he announced with satisfaction, “that any one would recognize me. The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave. Our ideal had fallen.
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