“Of course I mind,” she whispered. She turned from him, and saw up on the sky-line two figures that seemed to be of enormous size.
“They’re watching us. They stand on the edge watching us. This country’s so open—you—you can’t they watch us wherever we go. Of course you mind.”
They heard the rumble of the train, and she pulled herself together. “Come, dearest, we shall be run over next. We’re saying things that have no sense.” But on the way back he repeated: “They can still see us. They can see every inch of this road. They watch us for ever.” And when they arrived at the steps there, sure enough, were still the two figures gazing from the outer circle of the Rings.
She made him go to his room at once: he was almost hysterical. Leighton brought out some tea for her, and she sat drinking it on the little terrace. Of course she minded.
Again she was menaced by the abnormal. All had seemed so fair and so simple, so in accordance with her ideas; and then, like a corpse, this horror rose up to the surface. She saw the two figures descend and pause while one of them harnessed the pony; she saw them drive downward, and knew that before long she must face them and the world. She glanced at her engagement ring.
When the carriage drove up Mrs. Failing dismounted, but did not speak. It was Stephen who inquired after Rickie. She, scarcely knowing the sound of her own voice, replied that he was a little tired.
“Go and put up the pony,” said Mrs. Failing rather sharply.
“Agnes, give me some tea.”
“It is rather strong,” said Agnes as the carriage drove off and left them alone. Then she noticed that Mrs. Failing herself was agitated. Her lips were trembling, and she saw the boy depart with manifest relief.
“Do you know,” she said hurriedly, as if talking against time—“Do you know what upset Rickie?”