'I thank you, sir, for arousing me. Is Mr. Falkirk here?'
'No—I am alone. But you are at a distance from home. Can you go back without some refreshment?' The words and the speaker were quiet enough, but Wych Hazel's colour stirred uneasily.
'Yes. Don't let me detain you, sir,' she said, putting herself in quick motion across the moss. He met her on the other side of a big boulder and stayed her, though with the quietest manner of interference.
'I beg your pardon—but if you wish to go home—'
'Yes,' she answered, with a half laugh, glancing up at the sun; 'I know. I am only going round this way.'
He stayed her still. 'I can guide you this way,' he said; 'but—it is not the way to the House.'
Another glance at the sun. 'Which is the way?'
'I will show it to you. Do you care most for speed or smooth going? You are tired?'
Wych Hazel knit her brows into the most abortive attempt at a frown. What right had he to suppose that she was tired!
'If you will just show me the way, sir—the shortest; I mean, point out the direction.'