"Then if you will show me the trail I will not keep you. I am getting cold," she said.
Ingleby took the bridle, and he and the cayuse floundered through what appeared to be a horrible maze of fallen branches and tangled undergrowth. In fact, Grace fancied she heard her skirt rip as they struggled in it. Then the bush became a little clearer, and they went on more briskly, up and down steep slopes and past dim blurs of trees, while soil and gravel alike rang beneath the cayuse's feet. How long this continued Grace did not exactly know, nor had she any notion as to where they were. The only reassuring thing was the glimpse she had of Ingleby plodding on beside her horse's head, which was, however, quite sufficient. Still, civility demanded something, and at last she bade him stop.
"I'm afraid I must be taking you away from the bakery," she said.
Ingleby laughed. "I am, of course, not going there now."
That should have been sufficient, but Grace was not quite contented. Compliments on her beauty seldom pleased her, but she liked to feel the hold she had upon those she attracted, and was not averse to having it explained to her.
"No?" she said. "Then where are you going?"
Ingleby appeared a trifle astonished, as though he considered the question quite unnecessary, which was naturally gratifying.
"To the Gold Commissioner's residence," he said.
"With my permission?" and Grace laughed.
Ingleby did not look at her. He was apparently staring at the forest, which loomed through the whirling haze a faint blur of vanishing trees, and he flung the answer over his shoulder.