'Well,' he said, after his scrutiny, 'I need hardly have asked such a
question of one who is Nature's own image . . . Ah, but my good
little friend,' he added, recurring to his bitter tone and sitting
wearily down, 'you don't know what great clouds can hang over some
people's lives, and what cowards some men are in face of them. To
escape themselves they travel, take picturesque houses, and engage in
country sports. But here it is so dreary, and the fog was horrible
this morning!'
'Why, this is only the pride of the morning!' said Margery. 'By-and-
by it will be a beautiful day.'
She was going on her way forthwith; but he detained her--detained her
with words, talking on every innocent little subject he could think
of. He had an object in keeping her there more serious than his
words would imply. It was as if he feared to be left alone.
While they still stood, the misty figure of the postman, whom Margery
had left a quarter of an hour earlier to follow his sinuous course,
crossed the grounds below them on his way to the house. Signifying
to Margery by a wave of his hand that she was to step back out of
sight, in the hinder angle of the shelter, the gentleman beckoned to
the postman to bring the bag to where he stood. The man did so, and
again resumed his journey.
The stranger unlocked the bag and threw it on the seat, having taken
one letter from within.
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