“What does she say to you?”
They stood watching each other like stags preparing to fight. Then Lucian held out his letter. Farquhar held out his in return and took Lucian’s with his other hand; the letters changed owners simultaneously. Farquhar devoured the open page in an instant:
“Dear Mr. de Saumarez,—I have now made up my mind upon the question which you asked me. If you are still interested, and care to come and see me next time you are in England, I will tell you my decision.
“Sincerely yours,
“Mirabelle Fane.”
“God! When’s the next train?” said Farquhar.
XIX
ROMANCE BRINGS UP THE NINE-FIFTEEN
Four o’clock at Gedinne station, thirteen miles from Vresse. Rain was streaming down in torrents, yet of the two passengers waiting for the train only one was under the shelter; and when the other in momentary absence of mind came under the glass, the first vacated his seat and took refuge in the storm. There he stayed, keeping an immovable face while the wind lashed him and the grey lances of rain assailed him, staring steadily at the silver-and-golden line along the horizon under the storm-cloud, and the amber glow which was slowly transfusing the sombre brown swells of vapour. Mademoiselle Hélène-Marie-Denise Bonin-Watelot, the signal-man’s eldest hope, with whom Farquhar had conscientiously made friends on his journeys to Brussels, came up and told him the number of the forks she had washed and the nature of the garters which she wore; but she got no pralines to-day from the big pocket in the overcoat.
When the train came in, the rivals got into different carriages as far apart as might be. Glad enough were they to be moving at all, though they stopped at every station. No lover journeying to his bride, nor widow hurrying to the sick-bed of her only son, ever found the giant steam more laggard. Five o’clock brought them to Houyet, where they changed trains and had their second encounter; for the platform was crowded, and Farquhar, springing into an empty seat at the moment before their start, found himself face to face with Lucian, and fled out again with an exclamation which the Belgian ladies, sitting stout and placid in an atmosphere of indescribable tobacco, luckily did not understand. Lucian, spite of his anxiety, nearly choked with laughter to see his friend hurrying into the company of three babies and a nurse, in preference to travelling up with him. Farquhar had a delightful journey; he stood all the way to Dinant and enjoyed a chorus of wails at every tunnel.
Six o’clock: Dinant sailed into sight and brought their third change. And now they had to wait for a full half-hour. The rain was done; the sunlight streamed over the earth like a tissue of gold, and across the blue sky floated low huge masses of dove-grey cloud, clear-edged with pearl, and higher, motionless as though painted on the motionless dome, long plumes of immaculate white widened out to the wind. The indefatigable artist tried to describe the scene with a stump of lead-pencil on the back of Dolly’s letter while he waited.