The man was conscious of some disgust. She looked very young and, slight as she was, her figure was prettily rounded and she had a soft, kittenish gracefulness; but she spoke with the assurance of a dowager. Though he had killed and cut up many a deer, he shrank from the small red stain on her delicate hand. She saw it and laughed, and then with a sudden change of mood she stooped and swiftly rubbed her fingers in the heather.
“Now,” she said sharply, “if you’re sufficiently rested, we’ll go on.”
Lisle moved away, but he asked a question:
“Do many girls shoot in this country?”
“No,” she answered with a mocking smile; “not so many, after all. That’s comforting, isn’t it? This kind of thing is hard work, and damaging to the complexion.”
Presently they came to a wall, and Lisle stopped in some uncertainty. It was as high as his shoulders and built of loose, rough stones.
“Get over,” she ordered him. “Then pull a lot of it down.”
He did so, making, though he endeavored to avoid this, a rather wide hole.
She scrambled through agilely and then regarded him with surprise as he proceeded to replace the stones.
“Why are you doing that?” she asked.