looked up, with his hat in his hand, and an air of grave
deference. He expressed a fear that she was fatigued.

She had half-dreamily opened her eyes and looked up at first,
but there was nothing 'fatigued' in the way the eyes went down
again, nor in the quick skill with which the scarf was caught
up and flung round her, fold after fold, until she was muffled
and turbaned like an Egyptian. Then she rose demurely to her
feet.

'I thank you, sir, for arousing me. Is Mr. Falkirk here?'

'No--I am alone. But you are at a distance from home. Can you
go back without some refreshment?' The words and the speaker
were quiet enough, but Wych Hazel's colour stirred uneasily.

'Yes. Don't let me detain you, sir,' she said, putting herself
in quick motion across the moss. He met her on the other side
of a big boulder and stayed her, though with the quietest
manner of interference.

'I beg your pardon--but if you wish to go home--'

'Yes,' she answered, with a half laugh, glancing up at the
sun; 'I know. I am only going round this way.'

He stayed her still. 'I can guide you this way,' he said;
'but--it is not the way to the House.'

Another glance at the sun. 'Which is the way?'