“Yes, oh, yes; you have always been true to me. You--” Here her senses came back with a rush. Dropping his hand as if it had become red hot, she said sharply, “What are you talking about?” “I don’t know,” he said, resuming his indifferent manner with a laugh. “Are you better? Let me drive you to the Beeches. My stable is within a stone’s throw; I can get a trap out in ten minutes.” “No, thank you,” said Gertrude haughtily. “I do not wish to drive.” She paused, and added in some bewilderment, “What has happened?” “You fainted, and--” “I did not faint,” said Gertrude indignantly. “I never fainted in my life.” “Yes, you did.” “Pardon me, Mr. Trefusis. I did not.” “You shall judge for yourself. I was coming through this field when I saw you gathering hemlock. Hemlock is interesting on account of Socrates, and you were interesting as a young lady gathering poison. So I stopped to look on. Presently you came out from among the bushes as if you had seen a snake there. Then you fell into my arms--which led me to suppose that you had fainted--and Max, concluding that it was all my fault, nearly sprang at my throat. You were overpowered by the scent of the water-hemlock, which you must have been inhaling for ten minutes or more.” “I did not know that there was any danger,” said Gertrude, crestfallen. “I felt very tired when I came to. That was why I lay so long the second time. I really could not help it.” “You did not lie very long.” “Not when I first fell; that was only a few seconds, I know. But I must have lain there nearly ten minutes after I recovered.” “You were nearly a minute insensible when you first fell, and when you recovered you only rested for about one second. After that you raved, and I invented suitable answers until you suddenly asked me what I was talking about.” Gertrude reddened a little as the possibility of her having raved indiscreetly occurred to her. “It was very silly of me to faint,” she said. “You could not help it; you are only human. I shall walk with you to the Beeches.” “Thank you; I will not trouble you,” she said quickly. He shook his head. “I do not know how long the effect of that abominable water-weed may last,” he said, “and I dare not leave you to walk alone. If you prefer it I can send you in a trap with my gardener, but I had rather accompany you myself.” “You are giving yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble. I will walk. I am quite well again and need no assistance.” They started without another word. Gertrude had to concentrate all her energy to conceal from him that she was giddy. Numbness and lassitude crept upon her, and she was beginning to hope that she was only dreaming it all when he roused her by saying, “Take my arm.” “No, thank you.” “Do not be so senselessly obstinate. You will have to lean on the hedge for support if you refuse my help. I am sorry I did not insist on getting the trap.”