CHAPTER I:  DRIVING OUT OF BUDMOUTH

An easy bend of neck and graceful set of head; full and wavy bundles of dark-brown hair; light fall of little feet; pretty devices on the skirt of the dress; clear deep eyes; in short, a bunch of sweets:  it was Fancy!  Dick’s heart went round to her with a rush.

The scene was the corner of Mary Street in Budmouth-Regis, near the King’s statue, at which point the white angle of the last house in the row cut perpendicularly an embayed and nearly motionless expanse of salt water projected from the outer ocean ­to-day lit in bright tones of green and opal.  Dick and Smart had just emerged from the street, and there on the right, against the brilliant sheet of liquid colour, stood Fancy Day; and she turned and recognized him.

Dick suspended his thoughts of the letter and wonder at how she came there by driving close to the chains of the Esplanade ­incontinently displacing two chairmen, who had just come to life for the summer in new clean shirts and revivified clothes, and being almost displaced in turn by a rigid boy rattling along with a baker’s cart, and looking neither to the right nor the left.  He asked if she were going to Mellstock that night.

“Yes, I’m waiting for the carrier,” she replied, seeming, too, to suspend thoughts of the letter.

“Now I can drive you home nicely, and you save half an hour.  Will ye come with me?”

As Fancy’s power to will anything seemed to have departed in some mysterious manner at that moment, Dick settled the matter by getting out and assisting her into the vehicle without another word.

The temporary flush upon her cheek changed to a lesser hue, which was permanent, and at length their eyes met; there was present between them a certain feeling of embarrassment, which arises at such moments when all the instinctive acts dictated by the position have been performed.  Dick, being engaged with the reins, thought less of this awkwardness than did Fancy, who had nothing to do but to feel his presence, and to be more and more conscious of the fact, that by accepting a seat beside him in this way she succumbed to the tone of his note.  Smart jogged along, and Dick jogged, and the helpless Fancy necessarily jogged, too; and she felt that she was in a measure captured and made a prisoner.

“I am so much obliged to you for your company, Miss Day,” he observed, as they drove past the two semicircular bays of the Old Royal Hotel, where His Majesty King George the Third had many a time attended the balls of the burgesses.

To Miss Day, crediting him with the same consciousness of mastery ­a consciousness of which he was perfectly innocent ­this remark sounded like a magnanimous intention to soothe her, the captive.

“I didn’t come for the pleasure of obliging you with my company,” she said.

The answer had an unexpected manner of incivility in it that must have been rather surprising to young Dewy.  At the same time it may be observed, that when a young woman returns a rude answer to a young man’s civil remark, her heart is in a state which argues rather hopefully for his case than otherwise.

There was silence between them till they had left the sea-front and passed about twenty of the trees that ornamented the road leading up out of the town towards Casterbridge and Mellstock.

“Though I didn’t come for that purpose either, I would have done it,” said Dick at the twenty-first tree.

“Now, Mr. Dewy, no flirtation, because it’s wrong, and I don’t wish it.”

Dick seated himself afresh just as he had been sitting before, arranged his looks very emphatically, and cleared his throat.

“Really, anybody would think you had met me on business and were just going to commence,” said the lady intractably.

“Yes, they would.”

“Why, you never have, to be sure!”

This was a shaky beginning.  He chopped round, and said cheerily, as a man who had resolved never to spoil his jollity by loving one of womankind ­

“Well, how are you getting on, Miss Day, at the present time?  Gaily, I don’t doubt for a moment.”

“I am not gay, Dick; you know that.”

“Gaily doesn’t mean decked in gay dresses.”

“I didn’t suppose gaily was gaily dressed.  Mighty me, what a scholar you’ve grown!”

“Lots of things have happened to you this spring, I see.”

“What have you seen?”

“O, nothing; I’ve heard, I mean!”

“What have you heard?”

“The name of a pretty man, with brass studs and a copper ring and a tin watch-chain, a little mixed up with your own.  That’s all.”

“That’s a very unkind picture of Mr. Shiner, for that’s who you mean!  The studs are gold, as you know, and it’s a real silver chain; the ring I can’t conscientiously defend, and he only wore it once.”

“He might have worn it a hundred times without showing it half so much.”

“Well, he’s nothing to me,” she serenely observed.

“Not any more than I am?”

“Now, Mr. Dewy,” said Fancy severely, “certainly he isn’t any more to me than you are!”

“Not so much?”

She looked aside to consider the precise compass of that question.  “That I can’t exactly answer,” she replied with soft archness.

As they were going rather slowly, another spring-cart, containing a farmer, farmer’s wife, and farmer’s man, jogged past them; and the farmer’s wife and farmer’s man eyed the couple very curiously.  The farmer never looked up from the horse’s tail.

“Why can’t you exactly answer?” said Dick, quickening Smart a little, and jogging on just behind the farmer and farmer’s wife and man.

As no answer came, and as their eyes had nothing else to do, they both contemplated the picture presented in front, and noticed how the farmer’s wife sat flattened between the two men, who bulged over each end of the seat to give her room, till they almost sat upon their respective wheels; and they looked too at the farmer’s wife’s silk mantle, inflating itself between her shoulders like a balloon and sinking flat again, at each jog of the horse.  The farmer’s wife, feeling their eyes sticking into her back, looked over her shoulder.  Dick dropped ten yards further behind.

“Fancy, why can’t you answer?” he repeated.

“Because how much you are to me depends upon how much I am to you,” said she in low tones.

“Everything,” said Dick, putting his hand towards hers, and casting emphatic eyes upon the upper curve of her cheek.

“Now, Richard Dewy, no touching me!  I didn’t say in what way your thinking of me affected the question ­perhaps inversely, don’t you see?  No touching, sir!  Look; goodness me, don’t, Dick!”

The cause of her sudden start was the unpleasant appearance over Dick’s right shoulder of an empty timber-wagon and four journeymen-carpenters reclining in lazy postures inside it, their eyes directed upwards at various oblique angles into the surrounding world, the chief object of their existence being apparently to criticize to the very backbone and marrow every animate object that came within the compass of their vision.  This difficulty of Dick’s was overcome by trotting on till the wagon and carpenters were beginning to look rather misty by reason of a film of dust that accompanied their wagon-wheels, and rose around their heads like a fog.

“Say you love me, Fancy.”

“No, Dick, certainly not; ’tisn’t time to do that yet.”

“Why, Fancy?”

“‘Miss Day’ is better at present ­don’t mind my saying so; and I ought not to have called you Dick.”

“Nonsense! when you know that I would do anything on earth for your love.  Why, you make any one think that loving is a thing that can be done and undone, and put on and put off at a mere whim.”

“No, no, I don’t,” she said gently; “but there are things which tell me I ought not to give way to much thinking about you, even if ­”

“But you want to, don’t you?  Yes, say you do; it is best to be truthful.  Whatever they may say about a woman’s right to conceal where her love lies, and pretend it doesn’t exist, and things like that, it is not best; I do know it, Fancy.  And an honest woman in that, as well as in all her daily concerns, shines most brightly, and is thought most of in the long-run.”

“Well then, perhaps, Dick, I do love you a little,” she whispered tenderly; “but I wish you wouldn’t say any more now.”

“I won’t say any more now, then, if you don’t like it, dear.  But you do love me a little, don’t you?”

“Now you ought not to want me to keep saying things twice; I can’t say any more now, and you must be content with what you have.”

“I may at any rate call you Fancy?  There’s no harm in that.”

“Yes, you may.”

“And you’ll not call me Mr. Dewy any more?”

“Very well.”

CHAPTER II:  FURTHER ALONG THE ROAD

Dick’s spirits having risen in the course of these admissions of his sweetheart, he now touched Smart with the whip; and on Smart’s neck, not far behind his ears.  Smart, who had been lost in thought for some time, never dreaming that Dick could reach so far with a whip which, on this particular journey, had never been extended further than his flank, tossed his head, and scampered along with exceeding briskness, which was very pleasant to the young couple behind him till, turning a bend in the road, they came instantly upon the farmer, farmer’s man, and farmer’s wife with the flapping mantle, all jogging on just the same as ever.

“Bother those people!  Here we are upon them again.”

“Well, of course.  They have as much right to the road as we.”

“Yes, but it is provoking to be overlooked so.  I like a road all to myself.  Look what a lumbering affair theirs is!” The wheels of the farmer’s cart, just at that moment, jogged into a depression running across the road, giving the cart a twist, whereupon all three nodded to the left, and on coming out of it all three nodded to the right, and went on jerking their backs in and out as usual.  “We’ll pass them when the road gets wider.”

When an opportunity seemed to offer itself for carrying this intention into effect, they heard light flying wheels behind, and on their quartering there whizzed along past them a brand-new gig, so brightly polished that the spokes of the wheels sent forth a continual quivering light at one point in their circle, and all the panels glared like mirrors in Dick and Fancy’s eyes.  The driver, and owner as it appeared, was really a handsome man; his companion was Shiner.  Both turned round as they passed Dick and Fancy, and stared with bold admiration in her face till they were obliged to attend to the operation of passing the farmer.  Dick glanced for an instant at Fancy while she was undergoing their scrutiny; then returned to his driving with rather a sad countenance.

“Why are you so silent?” she said, after a while, with real concern.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, it is, Dick.  I couldn’t help those people passing.”

“I know that.”

“You look offended with me.  What have I done?”

“I can’t tell without offending you.”

“Better out.”

“Well,” said Dick, who seemed longing to tell, even at the risk of offending her, “I was thinking how different you in love are from me in love.  Whilst those men were staring, you dismissed me from your thoughts altogether, and ­”

“You can’t offend me further now; tell all!”

“And showed upon your face a pleased sense of being attractive to ’em.”

“Don’t be silly, Dick!  You know very well I didn’t.”

Dick shook his head sceptically, and smiled.

“Dick, I always believe flattery if possible ­and it was possible then.  Now there’s an open confession of weakness.  But I showed no consciousness of it.”

Dick, perceiving by her look that she would adhere to her statement, charitably forbore saying anything that could make her prevaricate.  The sight of Shiner, too, had recalled another branch of the subject to his mind; that which had been his greatest trouble till her company and words had obscured its probability.

“By the way, Fancy, do you know why our quire is to be dismissed?”

“No:  except that it is Mr. Maybold’s wish for me to play the organ.”

“Do you know how it came to be his wish?”

“That I don’t.”

“Mr. Shiner, being churchwarden, has persuaded the vicar; who, however, was willing enough before.  Shiner, I know, is crazy to see you playing every Sunday; I suppose he’ll turn over your music, for the organ will be close to his pew.  But ­I know you have never encouraged him?”

“Never once!” said Fancy emphatically, and with eyes full of earnest truth.  “I don’t like him indeed, and I never heard of his doing this before!  I have always felt that I should like to play in a church, but I never wished to turn you and your choir out; and I never even said that I could play till I was asked.  You don’t think for a moment that I did, surely, do you?”

“I know you didn’t, dear.”

“Or that I care the least morsel of a bit for him?”

“I know you don’t.”

The distance between Budmouth and Mellstock was ten or eleven miles, and there being a good inn, ‘The Ship,’ four miles out of Budmouth, with a mast and cross-trees in front, Dick’s custom in driving thither was to divide the journey into three stages by resting at this inn going and coming, and not troubling the Budmouth stables at all, whenever his visit to the town was a mere call and deposit, as to-day.

Fancy was ushered into a little tea-room, and Dick went to the stables to see to the feeding of Smart.  In face of the significant twitches of feature that were visible in the ostler and labouring men idling around, Dick endeavoured to look unconscious of the fact that there was any sentiment between him and Fancy beyond a tranter’s desire to carry a passenger home.  He presently entered the inn and opened the door of Fancy’s room.

“Dick, do you know, it has struck me that it is rather awkward, my being here alone with you like this.  I don’t think you had better come in with me.”

“That’s rather unpleasant, dear.”

“Yes, it is, and I wanted you to have some tea as well as myself too, because you must be tired.”

“Well, let me have some with you, then.  I was denied once before, if you recollect, Fancy.”

“Yes, yes, never mind!  And it seems unfriendly of me now, but I don’t know what to do.”

“It shall be as you say, then.”  Dick began to retreat with a dissatisfied wrinkling of face, and a farewell glance at the cosy tea-tray.

“But you don’t see how it is, Dick, when you speak like that,” she said, with more earnestness than she had ever shown before.  “You do know, that even if I care very much for you, I must remember that I have a difficult position to maintain.  The vicar would not like me, as his schoolmistress, to indulge in a tete-a-tete anywhere with anybody.”

“But I am not any body!” exclaimed Dick.

“No, no, I mean with a young man;” and she added softly, “unless I were really engaged to be married to him.”

“Is that all?  Then, dearest, dearest, why we’ll be engaged at once, to be sure we will, and down I sit!  There it is, as easy as a glove!”

“Ah! but suppose I won’t!  And, goodness me, what have I done!” she faltered, getting very red.  “Positively, it seems as if I meant you to say that!”

“Let’s do it!  I mean get engaged,” said Dick.  “Now, Fancy, will you be my wife?”

“Do you know, Dick, it was rather unkind of you to say what you did coming along the road,” she remarked, as if she had not heard the latter part of his speech; though an acute observer might have noticed about her breast, as the word ‘wife’ fell from Dick’s lips, a soft silent escape of breaths, with very short rests between each.

“What did I say?”

“About my trying to look attractive to those men in the gig.”

“You couldn’t help looking so, whether you tried or no.  And, Fancy, you do care for me?”

“Yes.”

“Very much?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll be my own wife?”

Her heart quickened, adding to and withdrawing from her cheek varying tones of red to match each varying thought.  Dick looked expectantly at the ripe tint of her delicate mouth, waiting for what was coming forth.

“Yes ­if father will let me.”

Dick drew himself close to her, compressing his lips and pouting them out, as if he were about to whistle the softest melody known.

“O no!” said Fancy solemnly.

The modest Dick drew back a little.

“Dick, Dick, kiss me and let me go instantly! ­here’s somebody coming!” she whisperingly exclaimed.

Half an hour afterwards Dick emerged from the inn, and if Fancy’s lips had been real cherries probably Dick’s would have appeared deeply stained.  The landlord was standing in the yard.

“Heu-heu! hay-hay, Master Dewy!  Ho-ho!” he laughed, letting the laugh slip out gently and by degrees that it might make little noise in its exit, and smiting Dick under the fifth rib at the same time.  “This will never do, upon my life, Master Dewy! calling for tay for a feymel passenger, and then going in and sitting down and having some too, and biding such a fine long time!”

“But surely you know?” said Dick, with great apparent surprise.  “Yes, yes!  Ha-ha!” smiting the landlord under the ribs in return.

“Why, what?  Yes, yes; ha-ha!”

“You know, of course!”

“Yes, of course!  But ­that is ­I don’t.”

“Why about ­between that young lady and me?” nodding to the window of the room that Fancy occupied.

“No; not I!” said the innkeeper, bringing his eyes into circles.

“And you don’t!”

“Not a word, I’ll take my oath!”

“But you laughed when I laughed.”

“Ay, that was me sympathy; so did you when I laughed!”

“Really, you don’t know?  Goodness ­not knowing that!”

“I’ll take my oath I don’t!”

“O yes,” said Dick, with frigid rhetoric of pitying astonishment, “we’re engaged to be married, you see, and I naturally look after her.”

“Of course, of course!  I didn’t know that, and I hope ye’ll excuse any little freedom of mine, Mr. Dewy.  But it is a very odd thing; I was talking to your father very intimate about family matters only last Friday in the world, and who should come in but Keeper Day, and we all then fell a-talking o’ family matters; but neither one o’ them said a mortal word about it; knowen me too so many years, and I at your father’s own wedding.  ’Tisn’t what I should have expected from an old neighbour!”

“Well, to say the truth, we hadn’t told father of the engagement at that time; in fact, ’twasn’t settled.”

“Ah! the business was done Sunday.  Yes, yes, Sunday’s the courting day.  Heu-heu!”

“No, ’twasn’t done Sunday in particular.”

“After school-hours this week?  Well, a very good time, a very proper good time.”

“O no, ’twasn’t done then.”

“Coming along the road to-day then, I suppose?”

“Not at all; I wouldn’t think of getting engaged in a dog-cart.”

“Dammy ­might as well have said at once, the when be blowed!  Anyhow, ’tis a fine day, and I hope next time you’ll come as one.”

Fancy was duly brought out and assisted into the vehicle, and the newly affianced youth and maiden passed up the steep hill to the Ridgeway, and vanished in the direction of Mellstock.

CHAPTER III:  A CONFESSION

It was a morning of the latter summer-time; a morning of lingering dews, when the grass is never dry in the shade.  Fuchsias and dahlias were laden till eleven o’clock with small drops and dashes of water, changing the colour of their sparkle at every movement of the air; and elsewhere hanging on twigs like small silver fruit.  The threads of garden spiders appeared thick and polished.  In the dry and sunny places, dozens of long-legged crane-flies whizzed off the grass at every step the passer took.

Fancy Day and her friend Susan Dewy the tranter’s daughter, were in such a spot as this, pulling down a bough laden with early apples.  Three months had elapsed since Dick and Fancy had journeyed together from Budmouth, and the course of their love had run on vigorously during the whole time.  There had been just enough difficulty attending its development, and just enough finesse required in keeping it private, to lend the passion an ever-increasing freshness on Fancy’s part, whilst, whether from these accessories or not, Dick’s heart had been at all times as fond as could be desired.  But there was a cloud on Fancy’s horizon now.

“She is so well off ­better than any of us,” Susan Dewy was saying.  “Her father farms five hundred acres, and she might marry a doctor or curate or anything of that kind if she contrived a little.”

“I don’t think Dick ought to have gone to that gipsy-party at all when he knew I couldn’t go,” replied Fancy uneasily.

“He didn’t know that you would not be there till it was too late to refuse the invitation,” said Susan.

“And what was she like?  Tell me.”

“Well, she was rather pretty, I must own.”

“Tell straight on about her, can’t you!  Come, do, Susan.  How many times did you say he danced with her?”

“Once.”

“Twice, I think you said?”

“Indeed I’m sure I didn’t.”

“Well, and he wanted to again, I expect.”

“No; I don’t think he did.  She wanted to dance with him again bad enough, I know.  Everybody does with Dick, because he’s so handsome and such a clever courter.”

“O, I wish! ­How did you say she wore her hair?”

“In long curls, ­and her hair is light, and it curls without being put in paper:  that’s how it is she’s so attractive.”

“She’s trying to get him away! yes, yes, she is!  And through keeping this miserable school I mustn’t wear my hair in curls!  But I will; I don’t care if I leave the school and go home, I will wear my curls!  Look, Susan, do! is her hair as soft and long as this?” Fancy pulled from its coil under her hat a twine of her own hair, and stretched it down her shoulder to show its length, looking at Susan to catch her opinion from her eyes.

“It is about the same length as that, I think,” said Miss Dewy.

Fancy paused hopelessly.  “I wish mine was lighter, like hers!” she continued mournfully.  “But hers isn’t so soft, is it?  Tell me, now.”

“I don’t know.”

Fancy abstractedly extended her vision to survey a yellow butterfly and a red-and-black butterfly that were flitting along in company, and then became aware that Dick was advancing up the garden.

“Susan, here’s Dick coming; I suppose that’s because we’ve been talking about him.”

“Well, then, I shall go indoors now ­you won’t want me;” and Susan turned practically and walked off.

Enter the single-minded Dick, whose only fault at the gipsying, or picnic, had been that of loving Fancy too exclusively, and depriving himself of the innocent pleasure the gathering might have afforded him, by sighing regretfully at her absence, ­who had danced with the rival in sheer despair of ever being able to get through that stale, flat, and unprofitable afternoon in any other way; but this she would not believe.

Fancy had settled her plan of emotion.  To reproach Dick?  O no, no.  “I am in great trouble,” said she, taking what was intended to be a hopelessly melancholy survey of a few small apples lying under the tree; yet a critical ear might have noticed in her voice a tentative tone as to the effect of the words upon Dick when she uttered them.

“What are you in trouble about?  Tell me of it,” said Dick earnestly.  “Darling, I will share it with ’ee and help ’ee.”

“No, no:  you can’t!  Nobody can!”

“Why not?  You don’t deserve it, whatever it is.  Tell me, dear.”

“O, it isn’t what you think!  It is dreadful:  my own sin!”

“Sin, Fancy! as if you could sin!  I know it can’t be.”

“’Tis, ’tis!” said the young lady, in a pretty little frenzy of sorrow.  “I have done wrong, and I don’t like to tell it!  Nobody will forgive me, nobody! and you above all will not! . . .  I have allowed myself to ­to ­fl ­”

“What, ­not flirt!” he said, controlling his emotion as it were by a sudden pressure inward from his surface.  “And you said only the day before yesterday that you hadn’t flirted in your life!”

“Yes, I did; and that was a wicked story!  I have let another love me, and ­”

“Good G !  Well, I’ll forgive you, ­yes, if you couldn’t help it, ­yes, I will!” said the now dismal Dick.  “Did you encourage him?”

“O, ­I don’t know, ­yes ­no.  O, I think so!”

“Who was it?” A pause.  “Tell me!”

“Mr. Shiner.”

After a silence that was only disturbed by the fall of an apple, a long-checked sigh from Dick, and a sob from Fancy, he said with real austerity ­

“Tell it all; ­every word!”

“He looked at me, and I looked at him, and he said, ’Will you let me show you how to catch bullfinches down here by the stream?’ And I ­wanted to know very much ­I did so long to have a bullfinch!  I couldn’t help that and I said, ‘Yes!’ and then he said, ‘Come here.’  And I went with him down to the lovely river, and then he said to me, ’Look and see how I do it, and then you’ll know:  I put this birdlime round this twig, and then I go here,’ he said, ’and hide away under a bush; and presently clever Mister Bird comes and perches upon the twig, and flaps his wings, and you’ve got him before you can say Jack’ ­something; O, O, O, I forget what!”

“Jack Sprat,” mournfully suggested Dick through the cloud of his misery.

“No, not Jack Sprat,” she sobbed.

“Then ’twas Jack Robinson!” he said, with the emphasis of a man who had resolved to discover every iota of the truth, or die.

“Yes, that was it!  And then I put my hand upon the rail of the bridge to get across, and ­That’s all.”

“Well, that isn’t much, either,” said Dick critically, and more cheerfully.  “Not that I see what business Shiner has to take upon himself to teach you anything.  But it seems ­it do seem there must have been more than that to set you up in such a dreadful taking?”

He looked into Fancy’s eyes.  Misery of miseries! ­guilt was written there still.

“Now, Fancy, you’ve not told me all!” said Dick, rather sternly for a quiet young man.

“O, don’t speak so cruelly!  I am afraid to tell now!  If you hadn’t been harsh, I was going on to tell all; now I can’t!”

“Come, dear Fancy, tell:  come.  I’ll forgive; I must, ­by heaven and earth, I must, whether I will or no; I love you so!”

“Well, when I put my hand on the bridge, he touched it ­”

“A scamp!” said Dick, grinding an imaginary human frame to powder.

“And then he looked at me, and at last he said, ’Are you in love with Dick Dewy?’ And I said, ‘Perhaps I am!’ and then he said, ’I wish you weren’t then, for I want to marry you, with all my soul.’”

“There’s a villain now!  Want to marry you!” And Dick quivered with the bitterness of satirical laughter.  Then suddenly remembering that he might be reckoning without his host:  “Unless, to be sure, you are willing to have him, ­perhaps you are,” he said, with the wretched indifference of a castaway.

“No, indeed I am not!” she said, her sobs just beginning to take a favourable turn towards cure.

“Well, then,” said Dick, coming a little to his senses, “you’ve been stretching it very much in giving such a dreadful beginning to such a mere nothing.  And I know what you’ve done it for, ­just because of that gipsy-party!” He turned away from her and took five paces decisively, as if he were tired of an ungrateful country, including herself.  “You did it to make me jealous, and I won’t stand it!” He flung the words to her over his shoulder and then stalked on, apparently very anxious to walk to the remotest of the Colonies that very minute.

“O, O, O, Dick ­Dick!” she cried, trotting after him like a pet lamb, and really seriously alarmed at last, “you’ll kill me!  My impulses are bad ­miserably wicked, ­and I can’t help it; forgive me, Dick!  And I love you always; and those times when you look silly and don’t seem quite good enough for me, ­just the same, I do, Dick!  And there is something more serious, though not concerning that walk with him.”

“Well, what is it?” said Dick, altering his mind about walking to the Colonies; in fact, passing to the other extreme, and standing so rooted to the road that he was apparently not even going home.

“Why this,” she said, drying the beginning of a new flood of tears she had been going to shed, “this is the serious part.  Father has told Mr. Shiner that he would like him for a son-in-law, if he could get me; ­that he has his right hearty consent to come courting me!”

CHAPTER IV:  AN ARRANGEMENT

“That is serious,” said Dick, more intellectually than he had spoken for a long time.

The truth was that Geoffrey knew nothing about his daughter’s continued walks and meetings with Dick.  When a hint that there were symptoms of an attachment between them had first reached Geoffrey’s ears, he stated so emphatically that he must think the matter over before any such thing could be allowed that, rather unwisely on Dick’s part, whatever it might have been on the lady’s, the lovers were careful to be seen together no more in public; and Geoffrey, forgetting the report, did not think over the matter at all.  So Mr. Shiner resumed his old position in Geoffrey’s brain by mere flux of time.  Even Shiner began to believe that Dick existed for Fancy no more, ­though that remarkably easy-going man had taken no active steps on his own account as yet.

“And father has not only told Mr. Shiner that,” continued Fancy, “but he has written me a letter, to say he should wish me to encourage Mr. Shiner, if ’twas convenient!”

“I must start off and see your father at once!” said Dick, taking two or three vehement steps to the south, recollecting that Mr. Day lived to the north, and coming back again.

“I think we had better see him together.  Not tell him what you come for, or anything of the kind, until he likes you, and so win his brain through his heart, which is always the way to manage people.  I mean in this way:  I am going home on Saturday week to help them in the honey-taking.  You might come there to me, have something to eat and drink, and let him guess what your coming signifies, without saying it in so many words.”

“We’ll do it, dearest.  But I shall ask him for you, flat and plain; not wait for his guessing.”  And the lover then stepped close to her, and attempted to give her one little kiss on the cheek, his lips alighting, however, on an outlying tract of her back hair by reason of an impulse that had caused her to turn her head with a jerk.  “Yes, and I’ll put on my second-best suit and a clean shirt and collar, and black my boots as if ’twas a Sunday.  ’Twill have a good appearance, you see, and that’s a great deal to start with.”

“You won’t wear that old waistcoat, will you, Dick?”

“Bless you, no!  Why I ­”

“I didn’t mean to be personal, dear Dick,” she said, fearing she had hurt his feelings. “’Tis a very nice waistcoat, but what I meant was, that though it is an excellent waistcoat for a settled-down man, it is not quite one for” (she waited, and a blush expanded over her face, and then she went on again) ­“for going courting in.”

“No, I’ll wear my best winter one, with the leather lining, that mother made.  It is a beautiful, handsome waistcoat inside, yes, as ever anybody saw.  In fact, only the other day, I unbuttoned it to show a chap that very lining, and he said it was the strongest, handsomest lining you could wish to see on the king’s waistcoat himself.”

“I don’t quite know what to wear,” she said, as if her habitual indifference alone to dress had kept back so important a subject till now.

“Why, that blue frock you wore last week.”

“Doesn’t set well round the neck.  I couldn’t wear that.”

“But I shan’t care.”

“No, you won’t mind.”

“Well, then it’s all right.  Because you only care how you look to me, do you, dear?  I only dress for you, that’s certain.”

“Yes, but you see I couldn’t appear in it again very well.”

“Any strange gentleman you mid meet in your journey might notice the set of it, I suppose.  Fancy, men in love don’t think so much about how they look to other women.”  It is difficult to say whether a tone of playful banter or of gentle reproach prevailed in the speech.

“Well then, Dick,” she said, with good-humoured frankness, “I’ll own it.  I shouldn’t like a stranger to see me dressed badly, even though I am in love.  ’Tis our nature, I suppose.”

“You perfect woman!”

“Yes; if you lay the stress on ‘woman,’” she murmured, looking at a group of hollyhocks in flower, round which a crowd of butterflies had gathered like female idlers round a bonnet-shop.

“But about the dress.  Why not wear the one you wore at our party?”

“That sets well, but a girl of the name of Bet Tallor, who lives near our house, has had one made almost like it (only in pattern, though of miserably cheap stuff), and I couldn’t wear it on that account.  Dear me, I am afraid I can’t go now.”

“O yes, you must; I know you will!” said Dick, with dismay.  “Why not wear what you’ve got on?”

“What! this old one!  After all, I think that by wearing my gray one Saturday, I can make the blue one do for Sunday.  Yes, I will.  A hat or a bonnet, which shall it be?  Which do I look best in?”

“Well, I think the bonnet is nicest, more quiet and matronly.”

“What’s the objection to the hat?  Does it make me look old?”

“O no; the hat is well enough; but it makes you look rather too ­you won’t mind me saying it, dear?”

“Not at all, for I shall wear the bonnet.”

“ ­Rather too coquettish and flirty for an engaged young woman.”

She reflected a minute.  “Yes; yes.  Still, after all, the hat would do best; hats are best, you see.  Yes, I must wear the hat, dear Dicky, because I ought to wear a hat, you know.”