He went about twelve o'clock, to spend an hour with Serena.

His welcome was not ardent, and he felt the oppression of a languor be hardly tried to disguise.

Yet in truth his cause had benefited whilst he was away.

The eloquent letters did not fail of their effect; Serena had again sighed under domestic tyranny, had thought with longing of a life in London, and was once more swayed by her emotions towards an early marriage.
In dearth of matter for conversation (Glazzard sitting taciturn), she spoke of an event which had occupied Polterham for the last day or two.
Some local genius had conceived the idea of wrecking an express train, and to that end had broken a portion of the line.
"What frightful wickedness!" she exclaimed.

"What motive can there have been, do you think ?" "Probably none, in the sense you mean." "Yes--such a man must be mad." "I don't think that," said Glazzard, meditatively.