"I must speak to you alone," he said desperately; "I came on purpose."
She considered a moment. She had no refuge of her own except her bedroom, that agreeable attic with the extended view which had been apportioned to Aunt Catherine, and which she had inhabited for so short a time. The little hall where they were standing was the passage-room of the house. She took up a garden hat, and they went into the garden to the round seat under the apple tree, now ruddy with little contorted red apples. The gardener was scything the grass between the trees, whistling softly to himself.
Roger looked at him vindictively.
"I will walk part of the way home with you," said Annette, her voice shaking a little in spite of herself, "if you are going through the park."
"Yes, I have the keys."
"He has found out about Dick and me," she said to herself, "and is going to ask me if it is true."
They walked in silence across the empty cornfield, and Roger unlocked the little door in the high park wall.
Once there had been a broad drive to the house where that door stood, and you could still see where it had lain between an avenue of old oaks. But the oaks had all been swept away. The ranks of gigantic boles showed the glory that had been.
"Uncle John was so fond of the oak avenue," said Roger. "He used to walk in it every day. There wasn't its equal in Lowshire. Anne de la Pole planted it. I never thought Dick would have touched it."