It was a cross between a hansom cab and a "growler," with the voice of the latter, and the dust of the Farnborough road, with the prospect of a three-mile drive to meet Julia and a three-mile drive back again, did not fill Bobby with joy—also the prospect of having to make explanations.

He had quite determined on that. After the arbour business it was impossible to go on with Julia; he had to break whatever bonds there existed between them, and he had to do the business before she got to the hotel. Then came the prospect of having to live with her in the hotel, even for a night. He questioned himself, asking himself were he a cad or not, had he trifled with Julia? As far as memory went, they had both trifled with one another. It was a sudden affair, and no actual promise had been made; he had not even said "I love you"—but he had kissed her. The legal mind would, no doubt, have construed that into a declaration of affection, but Bobby's mind was not legal—anything but—and as for kissing a girl, if he had been condemned to marry all the girls he had kissed he would have been forced to live in Utah.

He had to wait half an hour for the train at Farnborough, and when it drew up out stepped Julia, hot, and dressed in green, dragging a hold-all and a bundle of magazines and newspapers.

"H'are you?" said Bobby, as they shook hands.

"Hot," said Julia.

"Isn't it?"

He carried the hold-all to the fly and a porter followed with a basket-work portmanteau. When the luggage was stowed in they got in and the fly moved off.

Julia was not in a passionate mood; no person is or ever has been after a journey on the London and Wessex and South Coast Railway—unless it is a mood of passion against the railway. She seemed, indeed, disgruntled and critical, and a tone of complaint in her voice cheered up Bobby.

"I know it's an awful old fly," said he, "but it's the best they had; the hotel motor-car is broken down or something."

"Why didn't you wire me that day," said She, "that you were going off so soon? I only got your wire from here next morning. You promised to meet me and you never turned up. I went to the Albany to see if you were in, and I saw Mr. Tozer. He said you had gone off with half a dozen people in a car——"

"Only four, not including me," cut in Bobby.

"Two ladies——"

"An old French lady and her daughter."

"Well, that's two ladies, isn't it?"

"I suppose so—you can't make it three. Then there was uncle; it's true he's a host in himself."

"How's he going on?"

"Splendidly."

"I'm very anxious to see him," said Julia. "It's so seldom one meets anyone really original in this life; most people are copies of others, and generally bad ones at that."

"That's so," said Bobby.

"How's the novel going on?" said Julia.

"Heavens!" said Bobby, "do you think I can add literary work to my other distractions? The novel is not going on, but the plot is."

"How d'you mean?"

"Uncle Simon. I've got the beginning and middle of a novel in him, but I haven't got the end."

"You are going to put him in a book?"

"I wish to goodness I could, and close the covers on him. No, I'm going to weave him into a story—he's doing most of the weaving, but that's a detail. Look here, Julia——"

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking."

"Yes?"

"I've been thinking we have made a mistake."

"Who?"

"Well, we. I didn't write, I thought I'd wait till I saw you."

"How d'you mean?" said Julia dryly.

"Us."

"Yes?"

"Well, you know what I mean. It's just this way, people do foolish things on the spur of the moment."

"What have we done foolish?"

"We haven't done anything foolish, only I think we were in too great a hurry."

"How?"

"Oh, you know, that evening at your flat."

"Oh!"

"Yes."

"You mean to say you don't care for me any more?"

"Oh, it's not that; I care for you very much."

"Say it at once," said Julia. "You care for me as a sister."

"Well, that's about it," said Bobby.

Julia was silent, and only the voice of the fly filled the air.

Then she said:

"It's just as well to know where one is."

"Are you angry?"

"Not a bit."

He glanced at her.

"Not a bit. You have met someone else. Why not say so?"

"I have," said Bobby. "You know quite well, Julia, one can't help these things."

"I don't know anything about 'these things,' as you call them; I only know that you have ceased to care for me—let that suffice."

She was very calm, and a feeling came to Bobby that she did not care so very deeply for him. It was not a pleasant feeling somehow, although it gave him relief. He had expected her to weep or fly out in a temper, but she was quite calm and ordinary; he almost felt like making love to her again to see if she had cared for him, but fortunately this feeling passed.

"We'll be friends," said he.

"Absolutely," said Julia. "How could a little thing like that spoil friendship?"

Was she jesting with him or in earnest? Bitter, or just herself?

"Is she staying at the hotel?" asked she, after a moment's silence.

"She is," said Bobby.

"It's the French girl?"

"How did you guess that?"

"I knew."

"When?"

"When you explained them and began with the old lady. But the old lady will, no doubt, have her turn next, and to the next girl you'll explain them, beginning with the girl."

Bobby felt very hot and uncomfortable.

"Now you're angry with me," said he.

"Not a bit."

"Well, let's be friends."

"Absolutely. I could never fancy you as the enemy of anyone but yourself."

Bobby wasn't enjoying the drive, and there was a mile more of it—uphill, mostly.

"I think I'll get out and give the poor old horse a chance," said he; "these hills are beastly for it."

He got out and walked by the fly, glancing occasionally at the silhouette of Julia, who seemed ruminating matters.

He was beginning to feel, now, that he had done her an injury, and she had said nothing about going back to-morrow or anything like that, and he was held as by a vice, and Cerise and he would be under the microscope, and Cerise knew nothing about Julia.

Then he got into the fly again and five minutes later they drove up to the Rose. Simon was standing in the porch as they drove up; his straw hat was on the back of his head and he had a cigar in his mouth.

He looked at Bobby and Julia and grinned slightly. It seemed suddenly to have got into his head that Bobby had been fetching a sweetheart as well as a young lady from the station. It had, in fact, and things that got into Simon's youthful head in this fashion, allied to things pleasant, were difficult to remove.