She regarded him distrustfully.
"At any rate, ride on with me now. Surely we have been in the shadow of this horrible bridge long enough."
"Oh! let me think," she said, half turning from him and pressing her hand to her brow.
"Think! Look here, Jessie. It is ten o'clock. Shall we call a truce until one?"
She hesitated, demanded a definition of the truce, and at last agreed.
They mounted, and rode on in silence, through the sunlight and the heather. Both were extremely uncomfortable and disappointed. She was pale, divided between fear and anger. She perceived she was in a scrape, and tried in vain to think of a way of escape. Only one tangible thing would keep in her mind, try as she would to ignore it. That was the quite irrelevant fact that his head was singularly like an albino cocoanut. He, too, felt thwarted. He felt that this romantic business of seduction was, after all, unexpectedly tame. But this was only the beginning. At any rate, every day she spent with him was a day gained. Perhaps things looked worse than they were; that was some consolation.
