"Without knowing our way? we should lose ourselves."
"Hardly that. I remember when I was a child there used to be a path which led right through the wood, over the heights and down into the valley. We must try and find it."
Eugénie still lingered, but the evidently impracticable state of the main road, half flooded and full of ruts, left her no alternative. She followed her husband who had already turned off to the left, and a few minutes later they were in the midst of the dusky green and thickly planted pine trees.
Now at least it was possible to advance over the roots and moss-covered ground, nay, it would even have been easy to feet trained to such exercise. To a lady and gentleman accustomed to the smooth floor of a drawing-room, having carriages and riding horses at their disposal for every excursion, and whose pedestrian feats were limited to a turn round the park when the weather proved unusually fine, this path offered difficulties enough--and then the foggy tempestuous weather to boot! It had left off raining certainly, but everything about them was dripping wet, and the clouds threatened a fresh shower at any moment. Several miles from home, in the midst of the woods, straying like a pair of adventurers trusting to chance, without conveyance or servants, without the smallest protection from wind or rain, Herr Arthur Berkow and his high-born wife were in a situation so extraordinary as to seem almost desperate.
But the lady had already accepted the inevitable with characteristic resolution. The first ten steps had shown her how impossible it would be to save her light silk dress and white bernous, so she abandoned them to the mercy of the wet moss and dripping trees, and walked bravely on. Her attire was ill-suited to such wanderings on foot, and utterly incapable of affording her any protection from the inclemency of the weather. She wrapped herself more closely in the thin cashmere, and shivered in spite of herself as the cold wind met her.
Her husband noticed this and stopped. Although they had started in a close carriage, he had, in his effeminate way, thrown a cloak round him which covered him completely. He took it off in silence, and would have put it round his wife's shoulders, but she moved aside with prompt decision.
"Thank you, I do not want it."
"But you are chilly."
"Not at all. I am not so sensitive to the weather as you are."
Without saying another word Arthur took the cloak back, but instead of folding it about him again, he threw it negligently on one arm and walked on at her side, clad only in his light dress suit. Eugénie struggled against a feeling of rising anger. She hardly knew herself why this conduct vexed her so much, but she would far rather have seen him wrap himself carefully in the despised cloak and so take care of his precious health, than witness this reckless exposure of himself to wind and weather. It was for her, and her alone, to show a quiet, well-considered acquiescence in the decrees of Fate.