“Besides—it’s nearly dark, it will be too dark to see in the wood, won’t it?”
“It will directly.”
“Well, I’ll just go to the end of the garden, for one moment—run and fetch that silk shawl out of my wardrobe—be quick, while it’s light.”
I ran and brought the wrap. She arranged it carefully over her head.
We went out, down the garden path. Lettie held her skirts carefully gathered from the ground. A nightingale began to sing in the twilight; we stepped along in silence as far as the rhododendron bushes, now in rosy bud.
“I cannot go into the wood,” she said.
“Come to the top of the riding”—and we went round the dark bushes.
George was waiting. I saw at once he was half distrustful of himself now. Lettie dropped her skirts and trailed towards him. He stood awkwardly awaiting her, conscious of the clownishness of his appearance. She held out her hand with something of a grand air:
“See,” she said, “I have come.”
“Yes—I thought you wouldn’t—perhaps”—he looked at her, and suddenly gained courage: “You have been putting white on—you, you do look nice—though not like——”