For a moment the stranger did not reply. Her pale face became crimson. At last she said:
“I’ve had a tumble off my bicycle. We went over a loose stone, and I’m afraid I’ve sprained my ankle. If you can give me a lift back to Beckwell I shall be awfully obliged.”
“Yes, with pleasure,” said Mrs. Serle. “The pony will stand, and I will get out and help you.”
Within five minutes the stranger, her bicycle, and the deposed dog were packed into the cart, and the Good Samaritan drove off.
For a long time her companion confined her conversation to monosyllables. Miss Piggott, the rector’s sister-in-law, had no desire to talk to the pretty young woman who shared the Professor’s address—but not his name. Strange to say, she was not “made up”!
“I suppose you live at Beckwell?” enquired Mrs. Serle.
“Yes, in the red house just as you come into the village.”
“It’s a pretty place, but extraordinarily dull. Do you know, I have been here three months, and have not spoken to a soul? I hope you won’t mind my saying that the residents of Beckwell are not very sociable to strangers.”
“No, I suppose we’re not,” murmured the other, who looked self-conscious, and uncomfortable.
“I can’t tell you how I am longing to depart, for I feel as if I should soon grow into a potato! You see, my husband is completely engrossed in his book—working alone all day. As it’s rather an important piece of literature, I never disturb him, and have rather a lonely time. I cannot understand what I have done to be ostracised!”