The driver of the coach had no unnecessary scruples. To him it was only one more passenger, whether he picked him up at the proper place or not, and Bar was miles away from Ogleport by the time his absence was known to any one but the faithful Val.
The latter, indeed, was in every bit as excited a state of mind as when he was bailing out the boat the previous Saturday, and he kept as cool and steady an exterior now as then, like the “trump” that he was.
Now it happened that when George Brayton walked away from the Academy, he caught sight of a female form some distance ahead of him, walking steadily away down the street.
“Ah!” he said to himself, “Mrs. Dryer.”
Precisely. No other.
And yet the young man made no manner of effort to overtake her, but turned his footsteps, instead, directly across the green, towards the home she had left behind her.
It was a safe sort of calculation to make, for Euphemia was there—and no one else besides.
Considering how nearly they had come to being drowned together on Saturday, it was in every way natural and polite that George Brayton should wish to make her a farewell call before hurrying away out of town on Monday.
Still, it is likely the doctor’s wife would have given something to have been present at that interview.
It might have been interesting even to good Mrs. Brayton herself.