She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit. Father— dead. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church. Some day older people, perhaps, will trouble to understand younger people, and there won’t be these fierce disruptions; there won’t be barriers one must defy or perish.
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