She held out a shapely hand. He took it, lifted his hat, and departed.

As soon as he was safely past a jutting corner of the road Lydia, instead
of going home, lazily sat down again on a rock to think about what had
happened. She was perfectly aware that--considering the whole interview
had only taken ten minutes--she had made an impression upon the young
man. And as young men of such distinguished appearance were not common in
the Whitebeck neighbourhood, the recollection of all those little signs
in look and manner which had borne witness to the stranger's discreet
admiration of her was not at all disagreeable.

He was not a native--that she was sure of. She guessed him a Londoner.
"Awfully good clothes!--London clothes. About thirty, I should think? I
wonder what he does. He can't be rich, or he wouldn't be bicycling. He
did up those straps as though he were used to them; but he can't be an
artist, or he'd have said something. It was a face with lots of power in
it. Not very good-tempered, I should say? But there's something about
him--yes, distinctly, _something_! I liked his thin cheeks, and his dark
curls. His head, too, was uncommonly well set on. I'm sure that there's a
good deal to him, as the Americans say; he's not stuffed with sawdust. I
can imagine--just imagine--being in love with him."

She laughed to herself.

Then a sudden thought occurred to her, which reddened her cheeks. Suppose
when the young man came to think over it, he believed that she had let
the papers fall into the river--deliberately--on purpose--just to attract
his attention? At the very precise moment that he comes upon the scene,
she slips into the water. Of course!--an arranged affair!