under his quizzical regard, 'there'll be--another difference. I wonder what.'
Soames took out his watch.
'We must go,' he said, 'if we're to catch our train.'
'Uncle Soames never misses a train,' muttered Val, with his mouth full.
'Why should I?' Soames answered simply.
'Oh! I don't know,' grumbled Val, 'other people do.'
At the front door he gave Holly's slim brown hand a long and surreptitious squeeze.
'Look out for me to-morrow,' he whispered; 'three o'clock. I'll wait for you in the road; it'll save time. We'll have a ripping ride.' He gazed back at her from the lodge gate, and, but for the principles of a man about town, would have waved his hand. He felt in no mood to tolerate his uncle's conversation. But he was not in danger. Soames preserved a perfect muteness, busy with far-away thoughts.
The yellow leaves came down about those two walking the mile and a half which Soames had traversed so often in those long-ago days when he came down to watch with secret pride the building of the house--that house which was to have been the home of him and her from whom he was now going to seek release. He looked back once, up that endless vista of autumn lane between the yellowing hedges. What an age ago! 'I don't want to see her,' he had said to Jolyon. Was that true? 'I may have to,' he thought; and he shivered, seized by one of those queer shudderings that they say mean footsteps on one's grave. A chilly world! A queer world! And glancing sidelong at his nephew, he thought: 'Wish I were his age! I wonder what she's like now!'
JOLYON PROSECUTES TRUSTEESHIP
WHEN those two were gone Jolyon did not return to his painting, for daylight was failing, but went to the study, craving unconsciously a revival of that momentary vision of his father sitting in the old brown leather chair with his knees crossed and his straight eyes gazing up from under the dome of his massive