Then came a terrible silence. Paul was too generous to take advantage of the slip, and Hazel, feeling an irrepressible desire to know the worst that his face might be expressing, glanced up hastily as she turned to view, with absorbing interest, the farther hedge.
He was smiling quietly to himself and looking very satisfied over something. So much her brief look told her, and she felt her resentment again rising.
"One can like driving, and yet have reasons for wishing to walk," she said severely, again taking up her weapon, but this time in some trepidation.
"Of course," he answered lightly. "One might object to the companionship of one's driver."
No response from Hazel.
"Is that it, Hazel?" he asked presently.
Still no reply.
"I have feared for some little time," he resumed, "that you have been avoiding my society. I cannot tell you how the suspicion has grieved me. I have spent much time in wondering wherein I have erred. Won't you tell me, Hazel, and set me right?"
Sympathetic Hazel was much distressed. "You have done nothing," she said earnestly, "nothing. Please do not think so again."
"But something has happened," he persisted, "and I think I have a right to know what, as it concerns myself so deeply. Don't you admit my right?"