They descended to the terrace together. “Where would you like to go?” he asked.
“To the village. I may want to telegraph, you know.”
They turned into the avenue, but Miss Desborough stopped.
“Is there not a shorter cut across the fields,” she asked, “over there?”
“There is,” said the consul.
They both turned into the footpath which led to the farm and stile. After a pause she said, “Did you ever talk with that poor old man?”
“No.”
“Then you don't know if he really was crazy, as they think.”
“No. But they may have thought an old man's forgetfulness of present things and his habit of communing with the past was insanity. For all that he was a plucky, independent old fellow, with a grim purpose that was certainly rational.”
“I suppose in his independence he would not have taken favors from these people, or anybody?”