Ida looked miserable at the suggestion.

'I--I--don't think Miss Wendover will be at home just yet,' she said.
'She has gone to The Grange, near Romsey, you know, to luncheon.'

'But a luncheon doesn't last for ever. What time do you expect her back?'

'Not till five, at the earliest.'

'And it is nearly half-past three. If you'll allow me to come with you I
can lounge in that dear old orchard till Aunt Betty comes home to give me
some tea.'

What could Ida say to this very simple proposition? To object would have
been prudish in the last degree. Brian Wendover could not know what
manifold and guilty reasons she had for shrinking from any association
with him. He could not know that for her there was something akin to
terror in his name, that a sense of shame mingled with her every thought
of him. For him she must needs be as other women, and it was her business
to make him believe that he was to her as other men.

'I shall be very happy,' she said, and then, with a final effort, she
added, 'but are you not tired after your journey? Would it not be wiser
to rest, and go to the Homestead a little later, at half-past seven, when
you are sure of finding Miss Wendover at home?'

'I had rather risk it, and go now, I am only tired of railway travelling,
smoke and sulphur, dust and heat. A quiet walk across the common and
through the wood will be absolute refreshment and repose.'