together for the remaining distance

Smith then perceived that to their train was attached that same carriage of grand and dark aspect which had haunted them all the way from London. 'You are going on, I suppose?' said Knight, turning to Stephen, after idly looking at the same object. 'Yes.' 'We may as well travel together for the remaining distance, may we not?' 'Certainly we will;' and they both entered the same door. Evening drew on apace. It chanced to be the eve of St. Valentine's--that bishop of blessed memory to youthful lovers--and the sun shone low under the rim of a thick hard cloud, decorating the eminences of the landscape with crowns of orange fire. As the train changed its direction on a curve, the same rays stretched in through the window, and coaxed open Knight's half-closed eyes. 'You will get out at St. Launce's, I suppose?' he murmured. 'No,' said Stephen, 'I am not expected till to-morrow.' Knight was silent. 'And you--are you going to Endelstow?' said the younger man pointedly. 'Since you ask, I can do no less than say I am, Stephen,' continued Knight slowly, and with more resolution of manner than he had shown all the day. 'I am going to Endelstow to see if Elfride Swancourt is still free; and if so, to ask her to be my wife.' 'So am I,' said Stephen Smith. 'I think you'll lose your labour,' Knight returned with decision. 'Naturally you do.' There was a strong accent of bitterness in Stephen's voice. 'You might have said HOPE instead of THINK,' he added. 'I might have done no such thing. I gave you my opinion. Elfride Swancourt may have loved you once, no doubt, but it was when she was so young that she hardly knew her own mind.'