Una, calling up a long line of heroes, thought first of Ivanhoe, then—and with a feeling of satisfaction—of Hotspur.
Figure matched face. Though but twenty-two, the frame was that of a trained athlete—stalwart, straight-limbed, muscular; and with all combined a grace which comes only with birth and breeding.
Wet and draggled, he looked every inch a gentleman—in Gideon’s suit of worn velveteen he looked one still.
Silent and motionless, Una watched him.
“Yes,” he said, “I got some lunch at the inn—‘Spotted Boar’ at Wermesley—about one o’clock, I suppose. I have never felt so hungry in my life.”
“Wermesley?” said the wife. “Then you came from——”
“London, originally. I got out at Wermesley, meaning to walk to Arkdale; but that appears to be easier said than done, eh?”
Gideon did not answer; he seemed scarcely to hear.
“I can’t think how I missed the way,” he went on. “I found the charcoal burner’s hut, and hurried off to the left——”
“To the right, I said,” muttered Gideon.