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Harringon, Hartington--something like that. Have to keep off that topic
until he could remember. Wish he'd told her the truth now--almost. He
glanced at her. She was riding with her eyes straight ahead of her.
Thinking. A little perplexed, perhaps, she seemed. He noticed how well
she rode and that she rode with her lips closed--a thing he could never
manage.
Mr. Hoopdriver's mind came round to the future. What was she going to
do? What were they both going to do? His thoughts took a graver colour.
He had rescued her. This was fine, manly rescue work he was engaged
upon. She ought to go home, in spite of that stepmother. He must insist
gravely but firmly upon that. She was the spirited sort, of course, but
still--Wonder if she had any money? Wonder what the second-class fare
from Havant to London is? Of course he would have to pay that--it was
the regular thing, he being a gentleman. Then should he take her home?
He began to rough in a moving sketch of the return. The stepmother,
repentant of her indescribable cruelties, would be present,--even these
rich people have their troubles,--probably an uncle or two. The footman
would announce, Mr.--(bother that name!) and Miss Milton. Then two
women
weeping together, and a knightly figure in the background dressed in a
handsome Norfolk jacket, still conspicuously new. He would conceal his
feeling until the very end. Then, leaving, he would pause in the doorway
in such an attitude as Mr. George Alexander might assume, and say,
slowly and dwindlingly: "Be kind to her--BE kind to her," and so depart,
heartbroken to the meanest intelligence. But that was a matter for the
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