"The others have vanished; I can't even hear them," she said. "I wonder which way they have gone."
Challoner listened, but could only distinguish the murmur of the wind among the birches and the rustle of fallen leaves. The rest of the party were obviously some distance ahead.
"The road's the longer, but as the field-path's often wet I can't tell which they've taken," he said.
"The field-path for me," Mrs. Chudleigh replied.
"I'm afraid I'm not very fond of walking."
They entered the wood and presently reached a stile, on the other side of which a boggy patch cut off the path from a strip of sticky ploughing. Mrs. Chudleigh regarded it with disapproval.
"I don't know if Mrs. Foster could jump over that, but I can't," she said.
She sat down upon the stile and Challoner leaned against the fence.
"There'll be time to meet them coming back before they reach the spot where the path rejoins the road. After all, I see no reason to complain of being left behind."
Mrs. Chudleigh smiled at him. "That's very nice of you, and while the sunshine lasts it's pleasant here. I often think an English wood, with the varied colours of the trunks and mosses showing, is most beautiful on a bright winter day. Besides, I wanted to talk to you. There's a favour I must ask."