Now they found themselves chatting without effort about the landscape, the horses' pace, the Commandant and his hospitality, the arrangements of the prison, and the prospects of a cosy dinner at Moreton Hampstead.

It was all the smallest of small talk, and just what might be expected of two reputable middle-aged persons returning in a post-chaise from a mild jaunt; yet beneath it ran a current of feeling.

In their different ways, each had been moved; each had relied upon the other for a degree of help which could not be asked in words, and had not been disappointed.
Now that Dorothea's infatuation had escaped all risk of public laughter, Endymion could find leisure to admire her courage in confessing, in persisting until the wrong was righted, and, now at the last, in shutting the door upon the whole episode.
And, now at the last, having shut the door upon it, Dorothea could reflect that her brother, too, had suffered.

She knew his pride, his sensitiveness, his mortal dread of ridicule.

In the smart of his wound he had turned and rent her cruelly, but had recovered himself and defended her loyally from worse rendings.