“Fanchon,” he said gravely and gently, “tell me why you did this. You didn’t mean to do it, you didn’t set out to do it—why did you? See, I trust you—I’m asking you to tell me the truth.”
“I lost my way.” She repeated it as if she had a lesson by rote. “Corwin overtook me and made me turn back. I was hungry, and we ate dinner at the same table—in the public dining-room. Then—then I didn’t want him to ride back with me—and I went out of the side door and started alone. When I came to the crossing above Fanshawe’s Creek, I didn’t know which way to go, and I chose the wrong road. I rode so far that I got frightened. I asked at a house out there—a woman with a queer name—Quantah, I think. I had to come back to the crossing. Then, when I did get to the creek, the horse lay down in the water. I sat and waited, dripping, until a motor picked me up. That’s all.”
“No,” said William, “that’s not all. You’re afraid of that man, Fanchon!”
“I!” she laughed tremulously. “Why do you think that?”
He was watching her, and he saw her eyes change. He was right. She was afraid of Corwin.
“I don’t think it,” he said gravely. “I know it. Go on, Fanchon; tell me the rest.”
“I have nothing to tell,” she replied slowly, deliberately, but with shaking lips. “You—you don’t believe me, n’est-ce-pas?”
William, looking steadily into her face, made no reply. His changed, white face frightened her. She rose unsteadily to her feet, a forlorn little figure.
“I’m not afraid of Corwin,” she said angrily, “not a bit! Ciel, why should I be afraid of any one? I ask you that, mon ami!”
He still said nothing, his grave eyes on hers. Fanchon returned his look—tried to return it steadily. She had told him a falsehood. She had never been afraid of falsehood; it was an easy way of escape. But now, under his eyes, she flinched. She blushed scarlet, put out a wavering little hand, and tried to catch at his, but he moved away.