“Oh, how pretty!” she said, quickly, though instantly checking herself as she remembered that she was not alone. Rather to her surprise her fellow-traveller responded to her exclamation.
“Yes,” he said, “the part of the country we are coming to now is worth looking at, if you’ve never been here before. It’s rather like the prettiest part of Nethershire.”
“Oh,” said Philippa, impulsively, interested at once; “isn’t Merle-in-the-Wold in Nethershire? I passed that way last week—it was charming.”
Again the change in her tone and way of speaking struck her companion curiously. There was a coincidence, too, in the name she had just mentioned.
“Yes,” he replied; “it is that part I was thinking of; I know it well.”
But already Philippa had had time to repent her impulsiveness, and a slight feeling of alarm added to her discomfort—alarm at her own indiscretion.
“I shall be telling where my own home is next,” she thought to herself; “I really am too foolish for words.”
It was too late, however, to do away with the impression her inconsistency had produced. The young man went on speaking.
“Have you seen the ruins of the old abbey at Merle-in-the-Wold?” he said.
“Oh, no, sir, I have never stayed there,” Philippa replied, but she felt that she was not playing her part as she should. For something in his manner, quiet as it was, convinced her that her companion’s curiosity was aroused.