She had left her parasol behind, too, and as she hastened along the narrow path from the river to the withy-bed, she nervously switched the green stalks by her side with a dead stick she had unconsciously picked up.
Her print dress hung straight and tight over her softly moulded figure and her limbs, as she walked, swayed with a free and girlish grace.
Passionately, intently, she scanned the familiar outlines of the spot, hoping and yet fearing to see him. Not yet—not yet! Nothing visible yet, but the low-lying little copse and the stretch of arable land around it. She drew near. She was already within a few paces of the place. Nothing! He was not there—he had failed her!
She drew a deep breath and stood motionless, the dead stick fallen from her hand and her gloveless fingers clasping and unclasping one another mechanically.
“Oh, Adrian! Adrian!” she moaned. “You don’t care any more—not any more.”
Suddenly she heard a swish of leafy branches and a crackle of broken twigs. He was there, after all.
“Adrian!” she cried. “Is that you, Adrian?”
There was more rustling and swishing, and then with a discordant laugh he burst out from the undergrowth.
“You frightened me,” she said, looking at him with quivering lips. “Why did you hide away like that, Adrian?”