“Oh, no, if you please! My father will do it.”
She leant on his shoulder and hopped a dozen paces.
“How did it happen, mademoiselle?”
“Imbecile that I am! I think I was dreaming. I had filled the pail and was descending the embankment when I slipped. I tried to step across the pail, but caught my foot in the rim. And then—I don’t know quite what happened. I fell. It is the other ankle which I fear I have sprained.”
“I am indeed most desolated. Is it far to the inn?”
“You see it yonder, monsieur. It is perhaps ten minutes’ walk, but twenty minutes’ hop.”
She laughed gayly, and Monsieur Roget said solemnly:
“If I might suggest it—I think it would be more comfortable for Mademoiselle if she would condescend to place her arm round my neck.”
“It is too good of you.”
They proceeded another hundred paces in silence, and then rested against a stile. Suddenly she gave him one of her quick glances, and said: