He reached the further verge of the plateau on which he had entered.

Ah, there was the valley--a greenish-grey stretch of colour--still looking placid and serene, as though it had not much missed him.

If Christine was no longer there, why should he pause over it this evening?
His uncle and aunt were dead, and to-morrow would be soon enough to inquire for remoter relatives.

Thus, disinclined to go further, he turned to retrace his way to the inn.
In the backward path he now perceived the figure of a woman, who had been walking at a distance behind him; and as she drew nearer he began to be startled.

Surely, despite the variations introduced into that figure by changing years, its ground-lines were those of Christine?
Nicholas had been sentimental enough to write to Christine immediately on landing at Southampton a day or two before this, addressing his letter at a venture to the old house, and merely telling her that he planned to reach the Roy-Town inn on the present afternoon.