"Hazel does not look any the older for it," retorted Phyllis. "Oh, Hazel, do tell us some of his pet names for you."
Hazel gasped and glanced hurriedly at Paul. Paul, who had not caught Phyllis's words, smiled at her and wondered within himself whether he read her glance aright: it seemed to appeal to him for help.
Francis came to the rescue. "Look here, Phyllis," he expostulated, "don't make any more of an enfant terrible of yourself than you need. I say," he continued, tactfully seeking to change the conversation, "how sick Digby will be when he hears that you called."
This announcement effectually turned the current of Hazel's thoughts. She tried to appear properly concerned, but relief and gratitude were all that Francis could read in the look she turned upon him.
Paul somehow contrived to bring Mrs. Travers and himself nearer the sofa, and the conversation became general.
When the adieux were made, Phyllis's contrite look was rewarded by an extra good-bye kiss and a forgiving little squeeze of Hazel's hand.
CHAPTER XIX
But that was to befall which gave Hazel cause to wish that Digby Travers had been present, during Paul's and her visit to his father's house. It would have proved uncomfortable, embarrassing, a sore trial of endurance for the moment; but once over, once the inevitable first meeting after the event of the engagement was ended, she could but have felt immensely relieved, albeit her heart would have ached with compassion for the poor young man, if, indeed, she saw reason for such emotion. She was always buoyed with the comfort of that doubt. Perhaps he was no "lover." He and Paul were as the poles asunder; and Hazel could not doubt Paul. Therefore, either Digby was not in love with her, or there were many sorts of lovers and many grades of being in love. Paul seemed to be of a somewhat high grade, she thought.
Hazel was walking through the Hazelhurst woods alone, pondering these matters in her heart. She had set out for an hour's brisk exercise at about three o'clock in the afternoon, intent upon completing a favourite round within the limit of that time, a round that took her across the comparatively open space where she was in the habit of feeding her pets, past the great oak, down many winding paths to the boundary fence, then, turning at right angles, a short way terminating in a hazel copse, and thence home.
She walked rapidly: the early November air was chill and crisp, making quick movement enjoyable and exhilarating. The woods were almost dismantled, but the many trees that were evergreen did not allow their thinness to be very marked, nor their nakedness too pronounced. Everywhere stood clumps of sturdy green that endured through all changes, brave and gravely cheerful, as if possessed of spirit too strong to know airy flights of imagination or mournful droopings of soul. They were never more than gravely cheerful, even in springtime's tremulous joy or summer's triumphant glory: sober enough, indeed, to give one—at such seasons—occasional vague feelings of irritation at their seeming stolidness. But ah! the gratitude with which one gazes upon these reliable, impervious old friends, when all else green in the dear woodlands is shrivelled and dead; whilst the more sensitive trees, that undergo so many phases of experience, are fortifying themselves with the long sleep of winter.