"Are you going for a walk? May I come part of the way with you?" he asked. "There are one or two things that I—well, that I rather wish to say. This might be a good opportunity. And really—" as a gust twisted her half round,—"it is rather a boisterous day for you to go alone."
"I'm not afraid of the wind, thank you; and I am used to taking care of myself." Mildred felt shy, which was not usual.
He had walked with her before, and she had not been shy in the least; but she was now quite glad of a thick veil, behind which she could blush comfortably.
"But you do not mind my coming, for at least part of the way?"
"O no; not at all."
Then they set off, and Mr. Willoughby talked on everyday subjects, and Mildred had little to say in reply. Most of her attention seemed to be given to the effect of the wind upon her dress, which certainly was discomposing.
Once or twice she spoke to Hero, and when necessary she answered briefly some question or remark of Mr. Willoughby; but for the first time conversation flagged between them. Generally he and she had any amount to say one to the other; and Mildred had often thought how pleasant a man he was to talk with, because he always understood at once what she meant. Some people were so dense, she used to say to herself, comparing them with him.
It began to dawn upon her, as they trudged along, that although Mr. Willoughby talked, he too was embarrassed, no less than she was. Yet he was not given to shyness, any more than was she.
She tried to think of something to say, which should put them at ease, and tried in vain. Nothing seemed to be exactly the right thing for that moment; and the feeling of constraint lasted till they were outside the village.
Then Mr. Willoughby asked, "Which way were you going?"