He said no more. The guiding of the horse took up all his attention. They came presently to a track crossing the one they were following.
He reined in as if he had reached his destination. Frances looked about her. The place was lonely beyond description. Here and there vast boulders pushed through the short grass, surrounded by tufts of heather that seemed to be trying to hide their nakedness. They were closely surrounded by hills, and the gurgle of an invisible stream filled the air with music.
“Have you ever been here before?” said Arthur.
“Never,” she said.
“Yes, you have,” he returned bluntly.
She started a little, and looked about her more attentively. Was the place familiar?
He pointed suddenly with his whip along the track they faced. “You and Roger!” he said. “Don’t you remember?”
She uttered a gasp of surprise. “Why—yes! But was it here?”
“It was round the curve of that hill,” he said. “Afterwards, you came on here alone, and lost your way, took the wrong turning. Remember?”
“I wanted to get to Fordestown,” she said. “But I was tired. I fell asleep.”