“Right; I’ll teach you. There’s nothing I like better; is there, Mrs. Merton?”
“Don’t ask me; I never pretend to fathom you,” said Mrs. Merton, plaintively, shaking her head. And she put out a very small hand to Dolly. “Please don’t snub me, Miss Fane; I’d so like to come and call, if you’ll let me. I was told you were a dreadful person, who dropped the h and divided the hoof—skirt, I mean; besides, it was your turn to call first on me. But you aren’t dreadful, are you? So may I come?”
Had there been any patronage in Mrs. Merton’s manner, Dolly would have been delighted to snub her; but there was none. The formula of gracious acceptance was less easy than a refusal, but Dolly let no one guess her difficulties. An interesting general discussion of the weather followed, during which one remarked that it gave the doctors quite a holiday, a second that it was muggy and unwholesome and why didn’t we have a nice healthy frost, a third that it was excellent for the crops, and a fourth that the harvest would be certainly ruined by wireworms, and each agreed with all the rest. Bernard, standing still, thought fashionable people talked like imbeciles. Dolly, shy, though no one saw it, was in a glow of triumph.
Their way home led through woods. So much rain had fallen that the mossy bridle-path was scored with deep ruts full of water, and Dolly had to hold her skirt away from the black leaf-mould. Rain-drops held in crumpled copper leaves shone gemlike, smooth young stems glistened; only the grey boles of the forest trees looked warm and dry. Dolly, herself like a russet leaf, harmonised with the woodland scenery, which seemed a frame made for her.
Farther on down the path, resignedly sitting on a bundle of fagots, and beginning to grow chilly, Lucian de Saumarez was waiting for some one to pass. He had set out with the virtuous intention of returning home in half an hour precisely, but had been lured on by a shrew-mouse, a squirrel, and the enchanting sun, till the end of his strength put a period to his walk; his legs gave way under him. Then he sat down and whistled “Just Break the News to Mother,” very cheerfully. It was fortunate that in Bernard’s hearing he did not attempt to sing, for his voice can only be described by the adjective squawky. He looked like a tramp who had stolen a coat, for over his own he wore one of Farquhar’s, which was truly a giant’s robe to him. At first glimpse of Dolly he whipped off his cap, and stood up bareheaded and recklessly polite.
“Excuse me—” he began.
“If you want relief, you’d better go to Alresworth workhouse; they’ll take you in there,” interrupted Bernard, who would never give to tramps.
“Be quiet, Bernard. Is there anything we can do for you?” asked Dolly, in her gentlest voice.
“Candidly, I only ask an arm, and not an alms,” said Lucian, laughing in Bernard’s face. “Fact is, I’ve walked up from The Lilacs and just petered out. Your woods are such a very remarkably long way through.”
“Then your name is De Saumarez. Bernard, give Mr. de Saumarez your arm. You must come home with us and rest; afterwards you can go back. You ought not to be sitting down out-of-doors this weather,” said Dolly, fixing her imperious young eyes upon him, between pity and severity.