They set off together, very careful not to join hands or take arms.
'Not across the fields,' said Midmore at the stile. 'Come round by—by your own place.'
She flushed indignantly.
'It will be yours in a little time,' he went on, shaken with his own audacity.
'Not so much of your little times, if you please!' She shied like a colt across the road; then instantly, like a colt, her eyes lit with new curiosity as she came in sight of the drive-gates.
'And not quite so much of your airs and graces, Madam,' Midmore returned, 'or I won't let you use our drive as a short cut any more.'
'Oh, I'll be good. I'll be good.' Her voice changed suddenly. 'I swear I'll try to be good, dear. I'm not much of a thing at the best. What made you . . .'
'I'm worse—worse! Miles and oceans worse. But what does it matter now?'
They halted beside the gate-pillars.
'I see!' she said, looking up the sodden carriage sweep to the front door porch where Rhoda was slapping a wet mat to and fro. 'I see. . . . Now, I really must go home. No! Don't you come. I must speak to Mother first all by myself.'
He watched her up the hill till she was out of sight.
