'I hoped—a while ago—it was near morning.'
He did not say what time it was. He put the little hand on his arm, guided Hazel into the road, and began his walk homeward, but with a measured quiet pace, not 'very fast.'
'Why did you wish it was morning?' he asked in the same way in which he had spoken before. No haste in it; calm business and self-possession; along with the other indications above mentioned. It was cool, but it was the coolness of a man intensely alive to the work in hand; the intonation towards Wych Hazel very gentle.
'I thought I had to walk home alone,' she said simply. 'And I wanted the time to come.'
'Please tell me the meaning of all this. You went to
Merricksdale this evening—last evening?'
'Yes.' Words did not come readily.
Rollo added no more questions then. He went steadily on, keeping a gentle pace that Wych Hazel could easily bear, until they came to the long grey stone house where she had once run in from the storm. At the gate Rollo paused and opened it, leading his companion up to the door.
'I am going to take you in here for a little while,' he said.
'We will disturb nobody—don't fear; I have a key.'
'In here?' she said, rousing up then. 'O no!—I must go home,
Mr. Rollo. Did you bring me this way—I did not notice.'
'You shall go home just as soon as possible,' he said; 'but come in here and I will tell you my reasons for stopping.'