“I am going now; will you walk to the gate with me?”
He matched his long step to hers, watching the troubled wonder on her face intently.
“How old are you, my Dryad?”
“I am seventeen.”
“Seventeen! Oh, God be good to us, I had forgotten that one could be seventeen. What’s that?”
He paused, suddenly alert, listening to a distant whistle, sweet on the summer air.
“Oh, that—that is Robin.”
“Ah——” His smile flashed, tender and ironic. “And who is Robin?”
“He is—just Robin. He is down from Cambridge for a week, and I told him that he might walk home with me.”
“Then I must be off quickly. Is he coming to this gate?”