Caged in caged in, in the old station 'growler', taking her to servitude. Hair smoothed straitly back beneath the plain bonnet, brown cloak over a gown of dull dove-grey. Miss Bird—Miss Jane Bird, who once had been dressed in gay coloured silks, with flowers and feathers and lace: who once had been petted and loved, trotting off beneath Mama's wing to her dancing lessons, her drawing lessons, her French.... Well, the lessons would avail her now: driving off into servitude as a governess. Passing on her way a glimpse of the sort of romance she would surely never now know?-smiling face upturned, fair head bent to kiss the palm of a small white hand. Absurd that, when later that moment must be recalled, her heart should turn over at the news that the lady concerned loved the gentleman madly: that the gentleman concerned was a fortune-hunting rake. Miss Bird—whom her pupil christened, on account of those quiet browns and greys 'Miss Dove'. But who went to a ball, like Cinderella, in a shimmering dress, and came to be called by all her small world 'Miss Radiant Dove'. Whom romance didn't pass by, after all.