'I had to hire a chariot because there was no two-horse carriage,' said
Redworth, 'and I wished to reach Copsley as early as possible.'
She replied, smiling, that accidents were fated. As a certain marriage had been! The comparison forced itself on her reflections.
'But this is quite an adventure,' said she, reanimated by the brisker flow of her blood. 'We ought really to be thankful for it, in days when nothing happens.'
Redworth accused her of getting that idea from the perusal of romances.
'Yes, our lives require compression, like romances, to be interesting, and we object to the process,' she said. 'Real happiness is a state of dulness. When we taste it consciously it becomes mortal—a thing of the Seasons. But I like my walk. How long these November sunsets burn, and what hues they have! There is a scientific reason, only don't tell it me. Now I understand why you always used to choose your holidays in November.'
She thrilled him with her friendly recollection of his customs.
'As to happiness, the looking forward is happiness,' he remarked.
'Oh, the looking back! back!' she cried.
'Forward! that is life.'
'And backward, death, if you will; and still at is happiness. Death, and our postillion!'