She flinched at that, as he expected; spoke uneasily, furtive-eyed.
"I think I'd rather go at once—round by the road. Isn't there a road?" She rose and looked about her, taking farewell of the daffodils.
"Yes, there's a road. Wouldn't you like a bunch?" He took a pair of scissors from the wall, and began to select his blooms. Alwynne followed him delightedly. She thought she would have a surprise for Clare, after all. And Elsbeth! Elsbeth was an after-thought. But she hoped there would be enough for Elsbeth.
"Why won't you go back through the wood?" he said quietly, as, hands full, he at last replaced the scissors on their particular nail, and twitched a strand from the horse-tail of bass that hung beside them. "Tell me." Then, calmly, "Here—put your finger here, will you?"
Mechanically she obeyed and he tied the knot that secured the great yellow sheaf and gave it to her.
"Now tell me. What frightened you in the wood? What was wrong?" He spoke quietly, but his tone compelled her.
"If you dreamed a dream——" she began unwillingly, "night after night—month after month—something ghastly——"
"Yes—" he encouraged her.
"Ah, well—at least you've the comfort of knowing it's a dream. But suppose, one day—you dreamt it while you were awake——?"
"Dreamt what?" He guessed her meaning, but he was deliberately forcing her to reduce her terrors into words—the more they crystallised, the easier she would find it to face and destroy them.