“We may as well travel together for the remaining distance, may we not?”
“Certainly we will;” and they both entered the same door.
Evening drew on apace. It chanced to be the eve of St. Valentine’s—that bishop of blessed memory to youthful lovers—and the sun shone low under the rim of a thick hard cloud, decorating the eminences of the landscape with crowns of orange fire. As the train changed its direction on a curve, the same rays stretched in through the window, and coaxed open Knight’s half-closed eyes.
“You will get out at St. Launce’s, I suppose?” he murmured.
“No,” said Stephen, “I am not expected till to-morrow.” Knight was silent.
“And you—are you going to Endelstow?” said the younger man pointedly.
“Since you ask, I can do no less than say I am, Stephen,” continued Knight slowly, and with more resolution of manner than he had shown all the day. “I am going to Endelstow to see if Elfride Swancourt is still free; and if so, to ask her to be my wife.”
“So am I,” said Stephen Smith.
“I think you’ll lose your labour,” Knight returned with decision.
“Naturally you do.” There was a strong accent of bitterness in Stephen’s voice. “You might have said HOPE instead of THINK,” he added.