‘Perhaps this will be our last walk,’ she said.  ’Come down to the seat over the river.’

‘Why should it be the last?  You’ll be here tomorrow.’

‘There are so many slips in such things,’ she said laughing.  ’You may get a letter from your constituents that will want all day to answer.  Or your father may have a political communication to make to me.  But at any rate come.’  So they went to the seat.

It was a spot in the park from whence there was a distant view over many lands, and low beneath the bench, which stood at the edge of a steep bank, ran a stream which made a sweeping bend in this place, so that a reach of the little river might be seen both to the right and to the left.  Though the sun was shining, the snow under their feet was hard with frost.  It was an air such as one sometimes finds in England, and often in America.  Though the cold was very perceptible, though water in the shade was freezing at this moment, there was no feeling of damp, no sense of bitter wind.  It was a sweet and jocund air, such as would make young people prone to run and skip.  ’You are not going to sit down with all the snow on the bench,’ said Silverbridge.

On their way thither she had not said a word that would disturb him.  She had spoken to him of the coming session, and had managed to display to him the interest which she took in his parliamentary career.  In doing this she had flattered him to the top of his bent.  If he would return to his father’s politics, then would she too become a renegade.  Would he speak in the next session?  She hoped he would speak.  And if he did, might she be there to hear him?  She was cautious not to say a word of Frank Tregear, understanding something of that strange jealousy which could exist even when he who was jealous did not love the woman who caused it.

‘No,’ she said, ’I do not think we can sit.  But still I like to be here with you.  All that some day will be your own.’  Then she stretched her hands out to the far view.

’Some of it, I suppose.  I don’t think it is all ours.  As for that, if we cared for extent of acres, one ought to go to Barsetshire.’

‘Is that larger?’

’Twice as large, I believe, and yet none of the family like being there.  The rental is very well.’

‘And the borough,’ she said, leaning on his arm and looking up into his face.  ‘What a happy fellow you ought to be.’

‘Bar Tifto,—­and Mr Jawstock.’

‘You have got rid of Tifto and all those troubles very easily.’

‘Thanks to the governor.’

‘Yes, indeed.  I do love your father so dearly.’

‘So do I—­rather.’

‘May I tell you something about him?’ As she asked the question she was standing very close to him, leaning upon his arm, with her left hand crossed upon her right.  Had others been there, of course she would not have stood in such a guise.  She knew that,—­and he knew it too.  Of course there was something in it of declared affection,—­of that kind of love which most of us have been happy enough to give and receive, without intending to show more than true friendship will allow at special moments.