My will never faltered. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. “Forty guineas a week. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway, something obstructed his further progress. He caressed her tenderly, with no trace of the Sebastian who had previously knocked her off her feet with a slap across the mouth. Is this man Hill dead?” She shook her head. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow.
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