So saying, Paul Charteris seated himself beside her upon the broad, shallow step, and possessed himself of one of the passive hands.
"What have you been doing?" he asked gently.
Hazel regarded the captive hand, or rather its prison, but her thoughts were not of it.
"Mr. Charteris," she said, timidly lifting her eyes to his, as with an effort she decided to speak her mind, "do you think—would it be very odd, if I sat behind in the phaeton, with—with the trunk, you know? Do you suppose Digby would mind, or think me very rude?"
"He would have no right to object," Paul answered warmly, pleased that she had appealed to him. "If he annoys you, he cannot expect better treatment."
"But that is my trouble," she explained, disengaging her hand to take up and fondle a fluffy ball of a kitten. "He only annoys me by being too nice. So it seems unkind to feel annoyed. If only one could sit with one's back to the horse for fear of draughts and smuts," she went on, "as one would, with one's back to an engine! I want to sit so that he cannot look into my face every time that he says anything."
Paul hastily removed his eyes from her countenance. "Just so," he said, "very naturally." But, though indignant on the girl's behalf, he felt he could not justly blame Digby Travers for this.
"And everything he says has two or more meanings," Hazel continued impatiently. "Now, when you say, 'Is it not a glorious day?' you mean: is it not a glorious day?" She paused.
"And what does Digby mean?" Paul asked quietly, the while feeling he should like to demand the answer from Travers himself.
"I don't quite know," Hazel answered, troubled. "He seems to think that he and I have reasons for thinking it much more glorious than other people. But I must go up to mother," she added, rising, "I cannot keep him waiting long, and—and I feel better, now that I have told you."