"I've been dull company for you, I'm afraid."
"Oh, no—indeed not! I've so enjoyed talking to you about school."
Nigel smiled at her.
"Perhaps we can meet and talk about school another day."
"Yes—I expect we can. I'm generally alone, you see."
"Haven't you any friends?"
"I've heaps at school—but they all seem so far away."
He was wheeling her bicycle up the lane, and the sun, struggling through the clouds at last, flung long shadows before them. In summer the lanes are often ugly, white and bare, but in autumn they share the beauty of the fields. This lane, delicately slimed with Sussex mud, wound a soft gleaming brown between the hedges, except where the rain-filled ruts were crimson with the sky.
"It's only four miles to Shovelstrode," said Nigel. "I'll wheel your bicycle to Wilderwick corner—you won't mind going the rest of the way alone, will you?—it's not more than a hundred yards, and I shall have to go down Wilderwick hill and make a bolt across country if I'm to be home in time."
"I hope I haven't kept you."