Roger set out at a quick pace for the wood, the basket rattling lightly on his arm; but the track of Alwynne's shoes was lost in the deep grass of the paddock, and he hesitated, wondering where he should look for her. Followed a cupboard-love scene with Nicholas Nye, who accompanied him to the boundary of his kingdom, snuffling windily in the empty bodge. He brayed disgustedly when Roger left him, his ancient lips curling backward over yellow stumps, in a smile that was an insult. He had the air of knowing exactly where Roger was going, and of being leeringly amused.

For ten minutes Roger wandered about, starting aside from the pathway half a dozen times, deceived by a swaying branch, or the deceptive pink and white of distant birch bark. He tramped on into the thickness of the wood, till at last, through a thinning of trees, a hundred yards to his left, he caught a glimpse of gold, that could only, he told himself, be Alwynne's hair. He frowned. It was just like the girl to go floundering into the only boggy bit of the wood, when two thirds were drained and dry, and thick with flowers.... It was sheer spirit of contradiction! She would catch cold of course; and he would, not to mince matters, be stunk out with eucalyptus for the next ten days ... and The Dears would fuss ... he knew them! His fastidiousness was always revolted by a parade of handkerchiefs and bleared eyes. He was accustomed to insist that disease was as disgraceful as dirt: and that there was not a pin to choose between Dartmoor and the London Hospital as harbourage for criminals. But he could always dismount from his hobby-horse for any case of suffering that came his way. He could give his time, his money, or his tenderness, with a matter-of-course promptitude that relieved all but a tender-skinned few of any belief that they had reason to be grateful to him.

Roger, his eye on the distant halo, crashed through the undergrowth at a great rate, emerging into a little natural clearing, to find Alwynne facing him, a bare half-dozen yards away.

The full sight of her pulled him up short.

She was standing—lying upright, rather, for she seemed incapable of self-support—flattened against a big grey oak. One arm, flung backwards, clutched and scrabbled at the bark; the other, crooked shelteringly, supported a mass of bluebells. Her face was grey, her mouth half open, her eyes wide and pale. Very obviously she did not see him.

"Alwynne!" he exclaimed.

She cowered. He exclaimed again, astonished and not a little alarmed——

"Alwynne! Are you ill? What on earth has happened?"

She flung up her head, staring.

"Roger?" she said incredulously.

Then her face began to work. He never forgot the expression of relief that flowed across it. It was like the breaking up of a frozen pool.

"Why, it's you!" cried Alwynne. "It's you! It's only you!" The flowers dropped lingeringly from her slack hands, and she swayed where she stood. He crossed hastily to her and she clung helplessly to his arm. She looked dazed and stupid.

"Of course it is," he said. "Who did you think it was?"

Alwynne looked at him.

"Louise," she said, "I thought it was Louise. She's come before, but never in the daytime. A ghost can't walk in the daytime. But this place is so dark, she might think it was night here, don't you think?"

He gave her arm a gentle shake.

"Let's get out of this, Alwynne," he began persuasively. "I think you're rather done for. There's been a hot sun to-day, and you've been stooping till you're dizzy. Come on. What a lot of flowers you've picked! Come, let's get out of this place."

"Yes," she said; "let's get out of this place."

"What about your bunch?" he questioned, glancing down at the hyacinths' heaped disorder. "Don't you want it?"

He felt her shiver.

"No," she said, "no." She hesitated. "Could we hide it? Cover it up? It ought to be buried. I can't leave it—just lying there——" There was a catch in her voice.

He concealed his astonishment and looked about him.

"Of course not," he said cheerfully. "Here—what about this?"

A huge tussock of bleached grass, its sodden leaves as long as a woman's hair, caught his eye. He parted the heavy mass and showed her the little cave of dry soil below.

"What about this? They'll be all right here," he suggested gravely.

Alwynne nodded.

"Yes—put it in quickly," she said.

Without a word, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he did as she asked. Then, rising and slipping her arm through his own, he pushed on quite silently, holding back the strong pollard shoots, clearing aside the brambles, till they reached the uneven footpath once more, that led them in less than five minutes to the further edge of the wood. As they emerged into the open fields, he felt the weight on his arm lessening. He glanced at his companion, and saw that there was once more a tinge of colour in her cheek.

She drew a deep breath and looked at him.

"I thought I should never get out again," she said dispassionately, as one stating a bald fact.

"Get where?"

"Out of that wood. You were just in time. I thought I was caught. I should have been, if you hadn't come."

Then she grew conscious of his expression, and answered it—

"I suppose you think I'm mad."

"I do rather."

"I don't wonder. It doesn't much matter——" Her voice flagged and strained.

They walked on in silence.

She began again abruptly.

"Of course you thought I was mad. I knew you would. I do myself, sometimes. Any one would. Even Clare. That's why I never told any one. But it never happened when I was awake before."

"I wonder if you would tell me exactly what happened?"

"I was frightened," she began irresolutely.

"For a moment I wondered if a tramp——"

She laughed shakily.

"I'm a match for the average tramp, I think. I'm head of the games."

He was amused.

"You'd tell him what you thought of him, I'm sure."

But already her smile had grown absent; she was relapsing into her abstraction.

They had crossed the field as they talked, and struck into the little gravelled path that led to the monster glass-houses on the other side of the hedge. A wide gate barred their progress. Roger manipulated the rusty chain in silence for a moment, then, as the gate yawned open, turned to her pleasantly——

"Won't you have a look round, as we've come so far? You're in my territory now, and I've a houseful of daffodils just bursting."

His calm matter-of-fact manner had its effect. Alwynne absorbed in her sick thoughts, found herself listening to his account of his houses and his experiments, as one listens subconsciously to the slur of a distant water-course. She did not take in the meaning of his words, but his even voice soothed her fretted nerves.

Roger was perfectly aware of her inattention. He was not brilliant, but he was equipped with experience and common-sense and kindness of heart; and above all he was observant. The Alwynne of his acquaintance, pretty, amusing, clever, had attracted him sufficiently, had even, as he admitted to himself as he went in search of her, been able to entice him from his Sunday comfort to wander quarrelling in wet fields. But the Alwynne he had come upon half-an-hour later was a revelation; at a glance every preconceived notion of her character was swept away.

His first idea was that she had been frightened by roughs, but her manner and expression speedily contradicted it. She was, he perceived, struggling, and not for the first time, with some overwhelming trouble of the mind. He had been appalled by the fear in her eyes. He remembered Jean's account. Elsbeth had been worried about her for a long time: ill-health and depression: she believed there had been some sort of a shock—a child had died suddenly at the school....

Alwynne's gay and piquant presence had made him forget, till that moment, such rudiments of her history as he had heard. But seeing her distress, he was angry that he had been obtuse, and amazed at her skill in concealing whatever trouble it might be that was oppressing her. All the kindliness of his nature awoke at sight of her haunted, hunted air; he bestirred himself to allay her agitation; he resolved then and there to help her if he could.

He had recognised at once that she was in no state for argument or explanation, and had devoted himself to calming her, falling in with her humour, and showing no surprise at the extravagance of her remarks. He had her quieted, almost herself, by the time they had reached his nursery and descended brick steps into a bath of sweet-smelling warmth.

Alwynne exclaimed.

The glass-house was very peaceful. Above a huge Lent lily the spring's first butterfly hovered and was still awhile, then quivered again and fluttered away, till his pale wings grew invisible against the aisles of yellow bloom. The short, impatient barks of Roger's terrier outside the door came to them, dulled and faint. The sun poured down upon the already heated air.

Alwynne walked down the long narrow middle way, hesitating, enjoying, and moving on again, much, Roger thought, as the butterfly had done. She said little, but her delight was evident. Roger was pleased; he liked his flowers to be appreciated. But he, too, said little; he was considering his course of action.

At the end of the conservatory was a square of brick flooring on which stood a table with a tobacco jar, and a litter of magazines; beside it an ancient basket-chair. Roger pulled it forward.

"This is my sanctum," he said. "Won't you sit down? I do a lot of work here in the winter."

Alwynne sank into the creaking wicker-work with a sigh of relief.

"I shall never get up again," she said. "It's too comfortable. I'm tired."

"Of course." He smiled at her. "Don't you worry. You needn't budge till you want to. I'll get some tea."

"You mustn't bother. It'll be cold. It's miles to the house," said Alwynne wearily.

He made no answer, but began to clear away the rubbish on the table. He moved deftly, light-footed, without clumsy or unnecessary noise; in spite of his size, his movements were always silent and assured.

She closed her eyes indifferently. She had said that she was tired; the word was as good as another where none were adequate to express her utter exhaustion. She felt that, in a sense, she was in luck to be so tired that she could not think.... She knew that later she must brace herself to an examination of the nightmare experience of the afternoon, to renew her struggle against the devils of her imagination; but for the moment her weakness was her safe-guard, and she could lie relaxed and thoughtless, mesmerised by the flooding sunshine and the pulsing scents and the quick movements of the man beside her. She wondered what he was doing, but she was too tired to open her eyes, or to interpret to herself the faint sounds she heard. She thought dreamily that he was as kind as Elsbeth. She was grateful to him for not talking to her. He was a wonderfully understanding person.... He might have known her for years.... He made her feel safe ... that was a great gift.... If she, Alwynne, had been like that, kind and reassuring, to poor little Louise—if only she had understood—Louise would have come to her, then, instead of brooding herself to death.... Poor Louise.... Poor unhappy Louise.... And after all she had not been able to kill herself.... She was still alive, lying in wait for her, though she knew that Alwynne could not help her.... She would never go away, though they had left her outside in the cold—in the cold of the wood—and were safe in this warm summerland ... she would be waiting when they came out again.... She shuddered as she thought of retracing her steps. She would ask Roger to take her home another way.... She would not have to explain.... He had not wanted explanation.... She was passionately grateful to him because he had not overwhelmed her with questions at their meeting. She could never explain, of course, because people would think her mad.... They might even send her to an asylum, if she told them.... She longed for the relief of confession, yet who would believe that she was merely a sane woman rendered desperate by evil dreams? Not Clare, certainly—not Elsbeth, though they loved her.... She would just have to go on fighting her terrors as best she could, till she or they were crushed....

She sighed hopelessly and opened her eyes.

"Had a doze? Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully.

She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her.

The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils.

Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her.

"Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?"

He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax.

"I always keep stores here," he confessed boyishly. "I used to when I was a kid. This is the old glass-house, you know, on Great House land. I've built all the others. I used to be Robinson Crusoe then, and now it's useful, when I'm busy, not to have to go up to the house always. Won't you pour out?"

Alwynne flashed a look at him.

"I don't believe it's that. You enjoy the—the marooning still. I should. I think it's perfectly delightful here."

"Well, Harris—my head-gardener—doesn't approve. Thinks it's infra dig. He told me once that he knew ladies enjoyed making parlours of their conservatories, and letting in draughts and killing the plants; but he was a nursery-man himself. However, I've broken him in to it. Oh, I say, there's no milk!"

"I don't take it. Clare—a friend of mine—never does, so I've got accustomed to it." She drank thirstily. "Oh, it's good! I didn't know I wanted my tea so."

"I did," he said significantly.

She coloured painfully: she would not look at him.

"I was very tired," she said lamely.

"Were you?" he asked her. "You weren't gone half an hour. Do you know it's only half-past three?"

He was very gentle; but she felt herself accused. She played uneasily with her rope of beads as she chose her words. Roger, for all his intentness, could not help noticing how white and slender her hands showed, stained though they were with hyacinth-milk, as they fingered the blue, glancing chain. They were thin though; and following the outline of her wrist and arm and bare neck, he thought her cheek, for all its smooth youthfulness, was thin also, too thin—altogether too austere, for her age and way of life. She had always been flushed in his presence, delightfully flushed with laughter, or anger, or embarrassment, and he had noticed nothing beyond her pretty colour. But now, he saw uneasily that there were hollows round her eyes, as if she slept little, and that there were hollows as well as dimples in her cheeks. He was astonished to find himself not a little perturbed at his discovery, so perturbed that he did not, for a moment, realise that she was speaking to him.

"I am very sorry," she was saying. "I'm afraid you thought—I'm afraid I was rather silly—in the wood. I was disturbed when you found me." Her words came jerkily. "I had not expected—that is—I did not expect——" She broke off. Her eyes implored him to leave her alone.

He would not understand their appeal.

"Yes, you expected——" he prompted her.

She controlled her voice with difficulty.

"Heavens knows!" She laughed, with a pitiful little air of throwing him off the scent. "One gets frightened for no reason sometimes."

"Does one?"

"In the country—I'm town-bred." She smiled at him.

He made up his mind, though he felt brutal.

"You were expecting—Louise?"

There was a silence. Slowly she lifted shaking hands, warding him off.

"No, no!" she said. "For pity's sake. You are calling her back." Then, struck with a new idea, she grew, if possible, whiter still. "Unless," she said, whispering, "you saw her—you too? Then there is no hope. I thought it was in my mind—only in my mind—but if you saw her too——" Her voice failed.

He thrust in hastily, ready enough to comfort her, but knowing well that the time had not come. Yet he felt like a surgeon at his first operation.

"No, you are mistaken. There was no one. I don't even know who Louise is. Only you mentioned her—once or twice, you see."

"Did I?" she said. Then, with an effort at a commonplace tone: "I was stupidly upset. You must excuse——"

He broke in.

"Who is Louise?" he asked her bluntly.

"A ghost," said Alwynne, white to the lips.

Again they were blankly silent.

Then she spoke, with extraordinary passion—

"If you laugh—it will be wicked if you laugh at me."

"I'm not thinking of laughing," he said, with the petulance of extreme anxiety.

She met his look and shrugged her shoulders.

"Then you think I'm crazy," she began defiantly. "I can't help it, what you think." She changed the subject transparently. "Roger, it's nice here. What are the names of all these flowers? Are those big ones daffodils, or jonquils, or narcissi? I never know the difference. I never remember——" Her voice trailed into silence.

"But look here," he began, and stopped again abruptly, deep in thought.

The flame of the spirit-lamp on the shelf between them flickered and failed, and sputtered up again noisily. Mechanically he rose to extinguish it, and, still absently, cleared the little table of its china and eatables.

Then he sat down once more, and leant forward, his arms on the table, his expression determined, yet very friendly.

"Alwynne," he said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, "hadn't you better tell me all about it?"

"You?"

"Why not?" he said comfortably. "You'll feel ever so much better if you get if off your chest."

For an instant she hesitated: then she shook her head wearily.

"I would like to tell some one. But I can't. I sound mad, even to myself. I couldn't tell any one. I couldn't tell Elsbeth even."

"Of course not," he agreed. "You can't worry your own people."

"No, you can't, can you?" she said, grateful for his comprehension.

"Of course not. But you see—I'm different. Whatever your trouble is, it won't worry me—because I don't care for you like Elsbeth and your friends. So you can just ease off on me—d'you see? If I do think you mad, it just doesn't matter, does it? What does it matter telling some one a secret when you'll never see them again? Don't you see?" he argued reassuringly.

She nodded dumbly. The cheerful, impersonal kindness of his voice and air made her want to cry. She realised how she had been aching for sympathy.

"Don't you see?" he repeated.

"You wouldn't make fun?" she asked him. "You wouldn't tell any one? You wouldn't talk me over?"

"No, Alwynne," he said gravely.

For a moment her eyes searched his face wistfully; then with sudden decision, she began to speak.