But Burgoyne's face has taken on a rather careworn look; and her little arrow misses its mark.
"You see, Amelia is at Florence," he says explanatorily; "her father, Mr. Wilson, had a clergyman's throat in the autumn, and was obliged to give up duty, so they all went abroad. They have been abroad all the winter; you know that I have not seen her since I came back from the Rockies."
They are now walking in a winding shrubbery path, whose laurels protect them from the pinching wind. They have turned several corners, and traversed half a quarter of a mile before either again breaks silence. It is the lady who does so finally.
"Jim, how long have you been engaged to Amelia?"
There is a sigh mixed with his answer.
"Eight years—eight years this next June; it was the second summer term after I came up."
"And as far as you can see, you are likely to be engaged for another eight years?"
"As far as I can see—yes; but then I cannot see far."
Perhaps his companion is a fanciful woman; but she notices that this time he does not sigh.
"Poor Amelia!" she says, half under her breath.