“We’ll drop Lob at the beginning of Chequers Street,” Wolf said, when they at last felt the hard road from Nevilton to Blacksod under their feet. “Do you think,” he went on, “that Miss Malakite will expect us still, so long after teatime?”

“I was going to stay to supper with her,” said Gerda; “so I don’t think it’ll matter. She’ll give us tea, though, late as we are! She won’t have noticed the time at all, very likely. She never does, when her father’s away and she’s reading.”

With the sister and brother leaning against him naturally and familiarly, each on one of his arms, Wolf with his oak-stick held firmly in the hand adjoining the now somewhat dragging and tired bird’s-nester, strode along towards the lights of the town, in a deep, diffused warmth of unalloyed happiness. The days of his life seemed to stretch out before him in a lovely Spring-scented perspective.