As he came nearer, she, hidden from his sight by the trunk of an old
oak-tree, grew uneasy and shy. Dark though it was, dimly as she could
see him, Doreen felt convinced, from the rapid, steady pace at which he
walked, that he was intent upon some set purpose, that he was not driven
by pique at her father's words.

He came quite close to her, so that she saw his face. A
dark-complexioned, strong face it was, clean-shaven, not handsome at
all. But, on the other hand, it was just such a face as women admire;
full of character, of ambition, of virility. Doreen had been debating
with herself whether she dared speak to him; but the moment she got a
full look at his face, her courage died away.

It was plain to her that, whatever might be the subject of the thoughts
which were agitating his mind, she had no share in them.

So she let him pass out, and then crept back, downcast, shocked,
ashamed, up the slope to the house.

She got in by the billiard-room, at the window of which she knocked.
Max, her brother, who was playing a game with Queenie, his younger
sister, let her in, and cried out at sight of her white face:

"Hello! Doreen, what's up? Had a row with Dudley? Or what?"

"I have had no 'row' with any one," answered the girl, very quietly.
"But--you must all know all about it presently, so you may as well hear
it at once--Dudley has gone away."

"What?"