"Aren't you having a good time, Greg?"
"How can I?"
"But you really needed the rest—You haven't been looking any too fit, you know. I thought this would be quite nice for you, Greg."
He let loose at that.
"If you must have it, Kathleen. I can't stand you and that bounder in the same house. That's the truth of it, old girl!"
She avoided answering him directly.
"It's such a ripping place here, Gregory. All—that is, all but those forests over there. The gardener told me his grandfather used to call them the Wood of Living Trees. He couldn't tell me why—only—Isn't it a strange name, Greg?"
She wound up lamely. Evidently she had not said what she started out to say.
"Not so awfully," he answered absent-mindedly. "It's probably an old, old name. They stick to places, you know."
"But the woods," she went on slowly, "they're so dark and mysterious and all that sort of thing. I've wanted to explore them ever since I've been here—that is—that's not altogether true, Gregory. They frighten me a good bit—especially at night. I get into quite a funk about it—at night. I say, you wouldn't call me a coward, would you, Gregory?"