Mrs. Verulam flushed.
"Mr. Rodney," she said, and her voice, too, began to tremble, "I must beg you to find the carriage for me at once."
"But it will not be here until half-past four."
"Very well, then, I shall walk home."
"Walk!" he cried, in as much amazement as if she had suggested going home in a balloon.
"Yes, and you must please accompany me."
"Certainly! anything! anywhere! What can it matter now?"
In after years that walk often rose before the owner of Mitching Dean in a vision of dust and anguish. As they went, stumbling among the vulgar crowd, treading on nuts, elbowing donkeys and negro minstrels aside, it seemed to Mr. Rodney that he and Mrs. Verulam were as a modern Adam and Eve, being expelled by a Master of the Buckhounds with a flaming hunting crop from that garden of the social paradise, the Royal Enclosure. They did not speak as they surged forward in quest of the far-off palace of the Bun Emperor. What could they say? Criminals do not chatter merrily as they wend their way towards the hulks. So Mr. Rodney put it to himself, although he had not the slightest idea what the hulks were. Only when, after long wandering in dreadful lanes between hedges totally unknown in society, they reached Ribton Marches, footsore, travel-stained, and broken in spirit, did he find a tongue, and, turning towards his wretched companion, make this cheery remark: "All is over!"
"Please don't talk nonsense, Mr. Rodney," said Mrs. Verulam sharply, as she sank into a garden-chair.
"I repeat," he answered, with thrilling emphasis and in a voice that was exceedingly hoarse, "all is over!"