"Lost," Mr Ffolliot repeated scornfully; "lost in Redmarley!"
"No, father, in the wood."
"And what was he doing in our woods, pray?"
"He had tried to come by a short-cut and got muddled and he fell down, and I couldn't pass by without speaking, could I . . . he might have broken his leg or something."
"What were you doing in the woods alone? I have told you repeatedly that I will not have you scouring the country by yourself. You have plenty of brothers, let one of them accompany you."
"I wasn't exactly alone," Mary pleaded; "Parker was with me."
"Mary," Mr Ffolliot said solemnly, "has it ever occurred to you that you are very nearly eighteen years old?"
"Yes, father."
"Well, that being the case, don't you think that decorum in your conduct, more dignity and formality in your manner are a concession you owe to your family. You know as well as I do that a young girl in your position does not converse haphazard with any stranger that she happens to find prone in the woods. It's not done, Mary, and what is more, I will not have it. This impertinent young counter-jumper probably was only too ready to seize upon any excuse to address you. You should have given him the information he asked and walked on."
"But we were going the same way," Mary objected; "it seemed so snobby to walk on, besides . . ." again that glorious blush, "he didn't speak to me first, I spoke to him."