Luke looked at his brother who gave him a friendly smile. He also looked sharply at the Hullaway labourers, who were shuffling off towards the barton of the Manor-Farm.
“I don’t mind,” he said; “though it is a dangerous time of day! But we can go by the fields, and you can leave us at Roandyke Barn.”
They moved off along the edge of the pond together.
“It was Lacrima, not I, Luke,” said Gladys presently, “who let that girl out.”
Luke flicked a clump of dock-weeds with his cane. “It was her own fault,” he said carelessly. “I thought I’d opened the thing. I was called away suddenly.”
Gladys bowed her head submissively. In the company of the young stone-carver her whole nature seemed to change. A shrewd observer might even have marked a subtle difference in her physical appearance. She appeared to wilt and droop, like a tropical flower transplanted into a northern zone.
They remained all together until they reached the fields. Then Gladys and Luke dropped behind.
“I have something I want to tell you,” said the fair girl, as soon as the others were out of hearing. “Something very important.”
“I have something to tell you too,” answered Luke, “and I think I will tell it first. It is hardly likely that your piece of news can be as serious as mine.”
They paused at a stile; and the girl made him take her in his arms and kiss her, before she consented to hear what he had to say.