And she chatted on about these individuals, describing a series of dolts, their achievements and personalities, with a great deal of girlish fun. Her companion enjoyed her little humours and egotisms, enjoyed the walk and her companionship. After the strain of the day, a day spent either in the toil of a developing business or under a difficult pressure of thought, this light girl's voice brought a gay, relaxed note into life. The spring was in the air, and his youth stirred again in that cavern where grief had buried it.
'Oh, dear, I must go home,' she said at last regretfully, startled by a striking clock. 'Father'll be just mad. Of course, he'll hear all about my meeting you—I don't care. I'm not going to be parted from all my friends to please him, particularly now he's turned me out for good—from Dora and—'
'From you,' she would have said, but she became suddenly conscious and her voice failed.
'No, indeed! And your friends won't forget you, Miss Lucy. You'll go and see Dora to-morrow?'
'Yes, if I can give them the slip at home.'
There was a pause, and then he said—
'And will you allow me to visit you at Wakely some Sunday? I know those moors well.'
She reddened all over with delight. There was something in the little stiffness of the request which gave it importance.
'I wish you would; it's not far,' she stammered. 'Aunt Miriam would be glad to see you.'
They walked back rapidly along Mosley Street and into Market Place. There she stopped and shyly asked him to leave her. Almost all the Saturday-night crowd had disappeared from the streets. It was really late, and she became suddenly conscious that this walk of hers might reasonably be regarded at home as a somewhat bold proceeding.