It was a movement which Dorothy made, brought me to myself. For she suddenly clasped her hands together with a shudder.
"You are cold?" I cried.
"No," she replied in a low voice. "I was thinking of that peak we saw and the horror of it by night," and her voice trembled for an instant, "and of your watching from the darkness the lights of Applegarth. We were comfortably in our beds; and it rained that night I remember the patter of the rain against the windows."
"Nay," said I, "there was little harm done. I am no snow-man to be washed away by a capful of rain."
She turned to me very quickly.
"Tell me," she said, in a voice no less quick. "The evening that you went from us—you were talking for a long while at the gate with Mary Tyson, you will remember. I interrupted your talk."
"Yes! I remember," I answered, staring straight in front of me.
"Well," she continued, "I have often wondered," her voice sank yet lower, "whether that going of yours was not a flight—flight from—from us at Applegarth. For, after all, it was something Mary Tyson said to you that made you go."
I turned towards her with a start.
"You know what Mary Tyson said?"