The day after—yesterday—I had ridden over in the morning to superintend some wood-cutting in the neighbourhood. I was returning to the château about four in the afternoon, when, at a sharp turn of the road, I found myself face to face with Mlle. Marguerite. She was alone. I prepared to pass her with a bow, but she stopped her horse.
"What a fine autumn day!" she said.
"Yes, mademoiselle. You are going for a ride?"
"As you see. I am making the best of my moments of independence, and, in fact, I have been rather abusing my liberty, for I am somewhat tired of solitude. But Alain is wanted at the house.... Poor Mervyn is lame.... You would not care to take his place?"
"With pleasure. Where are you going?"
"Well ... I thought of riding as far as the tower of Elven."
With her whip she indicated the misty summit of a hill which rose on the right of the road.
"I think," she went on, "you've never made that pilgrimage?"
"I have not. I have often meant to, but until now I have always put it off. I don't know why."
"Well, that is fortunate; but it is getting late; we must make haste, if you don't mind."