Robert could, have kissed her, curls and all, one moment for suggesting the errand, and the next could almost have signed her committal to the county lunatic asylum with a clear conscience.

What an extraordinary person it was! Off he went, however, with his _Spectator_ under his arm, whistling.
Mrs.Thornburgh caught the sounds through an open window, and tore the flannel across she was preparing for a mothers' meeting, with a noise like the rattle of musketry.

Whistling! She would like to know what grounds he had for it, indeed! She always knew--she always said--and she would go on saying--that Catherine Leyburn would die an old maid.
Meanwhile Robert had strolled across to Burwood with the lightest heart.
By way of keeping all his anticipations within the bounds of strict reason, he told himself that it was impossible he should see 'her' in the morning.

She was always busy in the morning.
He approached the house as a Catholic might approach a shrine.

That was her window, that upper casement with the little Banksia rose twining round it.