We are in the road, between the dusty quicks of the hedgerows.

The carriages bowl past us, whirling clouds of dust down our throats.

One is trotting by now, a victoria and pair of grays, and in it, leaning restfully back, and holding up her parasol, is the lady I noticed in church.

Musgrave knows her apparently.
At least, he takes off his hat.
"Who is she ?" I say, with a slightly aroused interest.

"I was wondering in church.