She was annoyed with Mr. Silver, annoyed with Joses, and, above all, annoyed with herself. She had been mischievous, and now she was being punished for it. She did not like Joses; and she _did_ like being alone in the wood at dusk. Her companion walked too close to her; he laughed too much; she was aware of that haunted and haunting eye of his rolling at her continually; and he smelt of alcohol. Also he would talk. "That's Silver, is it?" he said familiarly, as they walked down the hill. "That's _Mr._ Silver," she retorted. His eye sought hers, questioning; but found nothing save a proud, cold face. "Your dadda's training for him, isn't he?" continued the fat man. Her dadda! The cheek of it! "I don't know." "He's a Croesus, isn't he?" "He's _not_ a greaser," with warmth. Joses laughed his unpleasant laughter. "A Croesus, I said. Rolling. He's the Bank of Brazil and Uruguay." "I don't know," replied the girl. "I haven't asked." They had reached the stile into the wood. "Good-night," she said. "I'll see you through the wood," the other answered. A moment she hesitated. Should she after all go back by the field? If she did he would think she was afraid. And she was not, as she would show him. But she wished that Billy Bluff was with her. Reluctantly at length she climbed the stile and walked through the dusk. He shambled at her side. "Begun to bathe yet?" he asked. "No." "You let me know when you begin, and I'll come and paint you on the rocks." Her eyes flashed up at his. "You won't!" she said fiercely. He edged in upon her, laughing sleekly. "Saucy, is it?" he said. "Keep off!" she cried. "Wants taming, does it?" He wound his arm about her. "Let me go!" She kicked his shins with her square-toed shoes. She kicked hard and hurt him. "You little devil!" he snorted. He pressed her to him, seeming to smother her, like an offensive blanket. His red beard brushed her forehead; his hot face crowded down on hers; and above all his great red nose protruded above her like an inflamed banana. Mrs. Haggard was fond of saying that Joyce Woodburn was like a wild animal. And in a way the vicar's wife was right. Self-preservation was the first law of life for the girl as for every healthy young creature. And long and intimate contact with horses and dogs had made her swift and direct in action as were they. Now when she felt herself in the clutches of the Beast, and the Greater Death closing in upon her, she knew as little of doubts and scruples as any creature of the wilderness. That hateful breath was in her nostrils; those covetous eyes were close to hers; that inflamed and evil nose protruded over her in flaming invitation. She seized it in her gloved hand and wrenched it. The effect was immediate. Joses squealed and clapped both hands to his damaged organ. "My----, you----!" he squeaked in the voice of a Punch.