"I should not like to leave you. You might be in pain again," he said.
"Oh, my ankle is much better! It has had two hours' rest. I can wait at the Lodge till Annette comes."
Mechanically he had obeyed, and turned back in the direction of the main gates of the park. The Lodge—a small stone pavilion—was just inside the gates.
"We don't want to be spied from the château, do we, mon cousin?" added the young girl, whilst a ripple of laughter, musical as the song of a lark, helped to chase away the last lingering remnant of de Maurel's moodiness. "Ma tante would be vastly shocked, for my hair is dishevelled, and my gown wet and stained. Laurent would be angry and father would scold...."
She paused and suddenly uttered an exclamation of dismay.
"Holy Virgin! what have I done?"
"What is it?" he asked. "Mademoiselle Fernande, what is it? Are you in pain?"
"No. No, it is not that. My foot is so much better ... but ... but...."
She seemed ready to cry, and just now he felt that he would curse loudly and long if he saw her in distress.
"In Heaven's name, Mademoiselle Fernande," he implored, "I entreat you to tell me what troubles you."