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He might spend the rest of his days at McClintock's in perfect security. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. He had need of all the inexhaustible energy of his character to support him through his toilsome walk over the wet grass, or along the slippery ploughed land. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. "I disbelieve the whole story you have told me. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it. Good night!" "Well, if you won't be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen," observed the landlord, "there's a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to as tidy a craft as any on the Thames. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Strange, I shouldn't know him when he called on me.

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