Half-impulsively he moved forward to meet her.
“Good-evening, Miss Morion,” he said. “You weren’t startled, I hope, by seeing me here? It is so dark and gloomy already this evening.”
“Scarcely startled,” was the reply, with a smile, “but I did wonder who you were. You see, that path is so seldom used, I suppose that the people about avoid it purposely, though indeed it is only convenient as a short cut from the house to the church.”
By tacit consent they both came to a halt in front of the little gate again.
“I have just been at Fir Cottage,” said Mr Morion: “your sister Betty wanted to come to meet you, but Lady Emma negatived it.”
“I am very glad she did not come,” said Frances. “She has a little cold, and it is a chilly evening.”
“And I am keeping you standing,” he said; but still neither moved, and the eyes of both were turned in the same direction.
Frances seemed on the point of speaking, for she slightly parted her lips, only, however, to close them again. But some sort of “brain wave” was in the air, for a sudden impulse made her companion turn towards her with a query.
“Miss Morion,” he said, “though I had forgotten about it between times, I have more than once meant to ask you, if you don’t mind my doing so, what you thought about that queer light—reflection—that we both noticed the other evening?”
“I was just thinking about it,” said Frances in her straightforward way.