"I tore my dress," she explained ruefully, as if in self-defence. "I wanted to go home by a short cut. So I thought I'd try this lane. The stile here makes it a shorter cut than ever. I—I wanted to get over it ... and couldn't. And my dress caught on that nail; and it was a new one, too!"
She struggled with a fresh outbreak of grief and an obvious confusion which seemed to say: 'I know that ladies don't scramble over stiles. But the truth is the truth and must be told. What do you think of me?'
Hector looked at her gravely.
"That really is too bad," he sympathized. "It's a fine dress; and a very awkward stile."
She was grateful.
"Yes, isn't it—or aren't they—is that what I mean? I shall have to walk back by the long way now."
With that, she prepared to go. The dialogue was obviously over and Hector had received his dismissal.
But he could not let the matter end so soon and in this manner!
"Excuse me," he said, gently extending a detaining hand, "excuse me for intruding further and for contradicting, but—you don't really have to, you know!"
She looked at him quickly—apparently decided to ignore this assertion—moved on a step or two—thought better of it—and, halting, asked him calmly: