Paul sighed. It was a great admission, this, from her; but oh, how unsatisfying! It was but a whet to his appetite, it made him hungrier than ever.
A silence fell between them.
"You have not yet told me what the boys call you," he said presently, trying to speak lightly.
"I really could not," she replied, and he was surprised and distressed to see that she shrank from him, albeit the movement was scarcely perceptible.
By dint of long and earnest persuasion he wrung from her a promise that she would tell him—some time—and then, with a sense of being hunted and driven to bay, their destination reached, Hazel, with a desperate courage, feeling that she had better get over the inevitable at once, seized the opportunity when Paul's back was turned to her—whilst he examined the horse's hoof for a suspected stone—to whisper almost inaudibly, somewhere near the region of his ear:
"Mrs. Charteris."
Paul caught the words, and, starting up to capture and question the whisperer, was surprised to find that, quick as were his movements, he was already too late. The small back of the future Mrs. Charteris was already presented to him as she stood sedately, some yards away, knocking at the door of the Boutchers' cottage.
Mrs. Boutcher opened to Hazel with a gratified beam upon her shining, pink, well-favoured countenance.
"You're welcome, miss," she said, with a quaint, bobbing curtsey, "and the gentleman too, I am sure. Won't he come in, miss? It is a poor place, but he is heartily welcome."
Hazel glanced behind her. Paul was securing the horse and trap to the stone post of the gateway.