“He has not offended me,” I answered, quickly. “Only I don’t want to see him to-day. Goodbye.”
I ran down the path, leaving her standing at the front door. I just saw the back of Bruce Deville’s Norfolk coat as he entered the house by the French windows, and I hoped that I had escaped him. But before I was half way through the little plantation I heard firm footsteps behind me and then a voice—
“Good afternoon, Miss Ffolliot!”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Deville,” I answered, without looking round.
There was only room for one in the path. He passed me, taking a huge stride through the undergrowth, and turning round blocked the way.
“What is the matter?” he asked, quietly. “What have I done? Why are you trying to avoid me, like this?”
“I do not understand you, Mr. Deville,” I answered, untruthfully, and with burning cheeks. “Be so good as to let me pass.”
“Not till you tell me how I have contrived to offend you,” he answered, bluntly. “I called three times at the Vicarage last week. You would not see me; you were at home. I found that out, but you would not see me. The answer was the same each time, and now this afternoon you have done your best to avoid me. I want to know why.”
His tone and his attitude were alike uncompromising. I looked round in vain for some means of escape. It was not possible. After all this was no breach of my compact with the girl. I felt simply powerless.
“You have not offended me—not yet, at any rate,” I said, with emphasis. “If you keep me standing here against my will another minute you most certainly will though. Please let me pass, I am in a hurry to get home.”