She drew aside, quieting and patting the cob, while he opened the gate. Then she passed through and paused, looking back.
“Thank you very much. Are there any more gates?”
“Two more I am afraid,” he said formally, as he turned and joined her. “Will you allow me to open them for you?”
“It would be very good of you,” she faltered, not knowing how to refuse, or what to say.
They walked their horses side by side, through the gathering darkness. An embarrassed and thrilling silence reigned between them, till at last he said: “You are staying at Scarfedale—with your aunts?”
“Yes.”
“I heard you were there. They are only five miles from us.”
She said nothing. But she seemed to realise, through every nerve, the suppressed excitement of the man beside her.
Another couple of minutes passed. Then he said abruptly:
“I should like to know that you read my last letter to you—only that! I of course don’t ask for—for any comments upon it.”