They fetched in bread and beer and cold meat. Her host was jubilant,
and during supper, quite deferential. He had been awed by Hazel's
request to the night and by her beauty. But when his hunger was
satisfied, his voice grew louder and his eyes sultry.

Restraint fell between them. Looking at his face, Hazel again had an
impulse for flight. When he said, 'I want to stroke that silk dress,'
and came towards her, knocking the candle over as if by accident, she
edged away, saying sharply:

'Dunna maul me!'

He paid no attention.

'I'll do right by you,' he said; 'I swear I will. I'll--yes, I'll even
marry you to-morrow. But to-night's mine.'

It was not a question of marrying or not marrying in Hazel's eyes. It
was a matter of primitive instinct. She would be her own.

He had pulled the low dress off one shoulder. She twitched it out of
his hand and slipped from his grasp like a fish from a net. He was too
surprised to follow at once.

'Old feller!' she called, running into the yard, 'quick! quick!' A
rough grey head appeared.

'What? after the old 'un?'