82 The Light That Failed “Are you quite warm enough! Are you sure you wouldn’t like some more breakfast? Put the cloak over you knees.” “I’m quite comfy, thanks. Where are we going, Dick? Oh, do stop singing like that. People will think we’re mad.” “Let em think, — if the exertion doesn’t kill them. They don’t know who we are, and I’m sure I don’t care who they are. My faith, Maisie, you’re looking lovely!” Maisie stared directly in front of her and did not reply. The wind of a keen clear winter morning had put color into her cheeks. Overhead, the creamy-yellow smoke-clouds were thinning away one by one against a pale-blue sky, and the improvident sparrows broke off from water-spout committees and cab-rank cabals to clamor of the coming of spring. “It will be lovely weather in the country,” said Dick. “But where are we going?” “Wait and see.” The stopped at Victoria, and Dick sought tickets. For less than half the fraction of an instant it occurred to Maisie, comfortably settled by the waiting-room fire, that it was much more pleasant to send a man to the booking-office than to elbow one’s own way through the crowd. Dick put her into a Pullman, — solely on account of the warmth there; and she regarded the extravagance with grave scandalized eyes as the train moved out into the country. “I wish I knew where we are going,” she repeated for the twentieth time. The name of a well-remembered station flashed by, towards the end of the run, and Maisie was delighted. “Oh, Dick, you villain!” “Well, [ thought you might like to see the place again. You haven’t been here since the old times, have you?” “No. I never cared to see Mrs. Jennett again; and she