Tom sprang to his feet, and the two stood gazing at one another for a moment in mute surprise.
“You are ill,” said Beatrice; “you are as white as a sheet. What is the matter?”
She spoke anxiously. She looked half frightened at his strange looks; he saw it, and recovered himself instantly. It was perhaps the first time he had ever been taken unawares, and he was not altogether pleased that it had happened now.
“What are you doing out here all alone?” he asked peremptorily.
“What are you doing lying on the ground on a cold January evening?” she retorted. “Do you want to get rheumatic fever, too?”
“Answer my question first. What are you doing out here, miles away from home, with the darkness coming on, too?”
“I lost my way,” she answered carelessly. “I never can keep my bearings in these strange, wild places, where everything looks alike.”
“Then I must take you home,” said Tom shortly.
“You said you were going to dine at St. Maws to-night,” she objected.