'Light
as vanity; full of nothing.'
'Nothing in size, but a good deal in signification,' said the
other, a man of brighter mind and manners.
Smith then perceived that to their train was attached that same
carriage of grand and dark aspect which had haunted them all the
way from London.
'You are going on, I suppose?' said Knight, turning to Stephen,
after idly looking at the same object.
'Yes.'
'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.
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