"I'll go up to the Court and tell them to send back the carriage," said Paul, preparing to depart.
"No, thank you; I will walk."
"The village fly, then?"
"It, or rather its horse, has had more than its proper work to-day. It is probably now conveying the Bishop to the station."
"I shall come with you, then; it will be quite dark before you get home."
"I'm not afraid of it. I believe you are; there's a queer, scared look about you, as if you had seen a ghost; you still think I was in that carriage. Sally," turning to the girl who had just re-entered the room, "will you tell your brother that I don't wish him to see me home? He's very damp and miserable now."
"And at the risk of being a little damper, I will come; it's ridiculous to argue the point."
With all her boasted independence May was not sorry for Paul's escort when she stepped out into the night. The rain was descending in a steady down pour, the wind came sighing up the valley, and the river swept on its way, lapping against the bark with a dreary, sobbing sound. They walked on in silence side by side until May broke it with an impatient laugh.
"The dreariness of the night has infected us both. You are not often dull. You are always either amusing or interesting. Talk, please."
"I can't talk. I've not an idea in my head except that, if the river gets much higher, there will be a flood, and no more Rudham! And personally, I should not care much if it swept it away and me with it."