“We are going straight to the village now, Mrs. Foulton,” she said. “You will only have to be patient for a very short time. Come, Mr. Macheson. If you are ready we will start.”
They walked briskly along the country lane, through the early twilight. They said little to one another.
Macheson was profoundly moved by the tragedy of Letty’s disappearance. With his marvellous gift of sympathy, he had understood very well the suffering of the woman whom they had just left. He shivered when he thought of the child. With every step they took, his face resolved itself into grimmer lines. Wilhelmina was forced at last to protest.
“After all,” she said, touching his arm, “this young man will scarcely run away. Please remember that I am not an athletic person—and I have not much breath left.”
He slackened his pace at once.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I was forgetting.”
“Yes,” she answered simply, “you were forgetting. I—noticed it!”
To Macheson, her irritation seemed childish—unworthy. He knew so little of women—or their moods.
“What are you going to say to Stephen Hurd?” he asked abruptly.