For, evidently with the idea of giving himself a very severe course of training, he kept in the woods where the pathways were rugged and winding and so little frequented that at times the young growth crossed, switching his hat or face, and often having to be beaten back by the hands which he unwillingly withdrew from his pockets.
Rolph probably meant to reach some particular spot before he turned, for twice over he crossed a lane, and instead of taking advantage of the better path afforded, he plunged again into the woods and went on.
At the end of an hour he came upon another lane more solitary and unused than those he had passed. It was a mere track occasionally used by the woodcutters for a timber wagon, and the marks of the broad wheels were here and there visible in the white sand, which as a rule trickled down into all depressions, fine as that in an hour-glass, and hid the marks left by man.
“Rather warm,” muttered Rolph as he was crossing the sandy track; and he was in the act of charging up the bank on the other side, when there was a cheery hail, and as he turned with an angry ejaculation, he became aware of the fact that Sir John was coming along the lane upon one of his ponies, whose tread was unheard in the soft sand.
“Why, hullo, Rob, where are you going?” cried the baronet. “You look like a lost man in a forest.”
“Do I? oh, only having a good breather. Getting a little too much fat. Must keep myself down. Ride very heavy with all my accoutrements.”
“Hah! Yes. You’re a big fellow,” said Sir John, looking at him rather fixedly. “Why didn’t you have the horses out, then, and take Glynne for a ride?”
“Glynne? By Jove, sir, I did propose it, only she had got a book in the drawing-room.”
“Damn the books!” cried Sir John, pettishly. “She reads too much. But, hang it all, Rob, my lad, don’t let her grow into a bookworm because she’s engaged. She’s not half the girl she was before this fixture, as you’d call it, was made.”
“Well, really, I—”