her?

He stopped, looked backward, listened. He was quite alone with the lady,
who went past him now, only looking, as she walked, to see why he was
tarrying. In his fierce young loyalty to her he took for granted,
without question or proof, that her escort had deserted her in revenge
for her disdain. He would willingly have gone back to fetch him up, but
the impossibility of finding a man who did not wish to be found, the
impossibility, as it seemed to him, of letting her go further alone, the
boorishness of calling after her--all this constrained him to follow. He
ran to make his communication gently, and, as he ran, courage to make it
failed him. He thought of her as delicately accustomed to incessant
protection. At the thought of letting her know that she was telling her
thoughts to a stranger, that she was alone at such hour and place with
him, his throat swelled. He hated to speak words that would be so
hateful to her; and when he came by her side breathless, and she spoke
to him again, he walked on, waiting till she should stop, trying to
formulate what he had to say, listening and watching intently for some
sign of the recreant. Again speaking as though she must unburden her
mind, she turned into the lane. Over its fences he peered down the dark
main road, but neither in flash nor interval could the other man be
seen. He had not the slightest notion what the lady was saying now;
lofty philosophy or practical sarcasm it might be, it was all lost in
his exaggerated idea of what her fear and dismay would be when he spoke.

Before he had a chance to speak, however, he saw, in dark outline, the
building of the farm to which he supposed her to be going. It would be a
thousand times better to conduct her in silence to the door, which was
now so near. To tell her before could serve no end, for even if she
should wish to return to seek her late companion she could there obtain