"What is the matter?" she asked in astonishment. "Have you hurt yourself?"
"No, I thought I recognized a face, but I must be mistaken."
"That slim girl who passed us so quickly just now? I, too, fancy I have seen her before. Certainly she is a stranger here."
"Don't talk about her, Beatrice. It was a casual likeness. People look so different—distorted by the darkness. To-night it is very dark. There is no moon."
"Still, I can see," said Beatrice, pausing and looking back. "I can see, and I fancy the stranger is standing still and looking at us. Back there, by the hedge. Perhaps she is in trouble. Shall I run and speak to her?"
"No, not for the world. Come home. Forget her."
His tone was almost rough. They walked on rapidly. The high wind of a coming storm beat in their faces. Beatrice felt tired and dispirited, and Bertram's agitation and complete change of manner puzzled her.
Presently they reached the house.
"Here we are at last; you will be glad of your supper," she said.
"No, thanks, I am not coming in."