'I'll help you,' said Joyce. 'You don't look a sort to carry a gate. Do you call yourself a man or a rat?'
Presently the two returned with a hurdle; that is to say, Joyce was carrying one on her head, casting occasionally a contemptuous glance at the dapper little fellow at her side.
'Is my father able to speak yet?' asked the lady.
'No,' answered the young man. 'Do not be alarmed. We must carry him to a house, where he can be put to bed, and then we will return for you. Do you mind being left alone, or can you walk as far as to the house?'
'I have already told you that I cannot walk. You are forgetful, monsieur.'
'Then this girl will remain with you till we return.'
'Very well. If she likes to remain she may remain. It is her affair.'
The young lady spoke with a foreign—a French accent, which was pretty. Indeed, there was a foreign grace in her attitudes, and taste in her dress, which showed that, if an Englishwoman, she must have lived a great deal in France.
The gentleman returned to Joyce; he was a tall and fine young man, with dark hair and moustache and frank blue eyes.
'Will you remain here with the lady while we go on to the house?'