The girl’s usually bright spirit was clouded for the moment. A while since all had been bustle and excitement—she had made her small plans and arrangements with much of interest and ardour—had packed her small wardrobe with a keen sense of anticipatory pleasure. There had been something of the stirring nature of the heroic in yesterday’s farewells to the elongated Monday faces of her brothers; and her tender solicitude was not unmixed with youthful elation at the thought that her mother would miss her right sorely. Now, of a sudden, all this seemed changed. Without doubt or question, she did not want to go, and the vague consciousness that Paul did not wish it either, that he too would miss her, did not tend to lift the girl’s despondency; for she was tender, true, and pure womanly, and, being so, knew nothing of the malicious joy of that perversity wherein so many of Eve’s daughters delight. She sank down upon the first stair, rather listlessly, and looked to Paul for his answer. "An hour," he said, "when you appeared. But Hazel," he added commiseratingly, "you have tired yourself over all that packing. Could not one of the maids have done it?" "I am not tired, thank you," she answered absently, "at least, I do not think I am." Paul did not look satisfied. The girl was pale, and the small hands, usually nervous-looking and energetic, lay limp before her. "I am sorry," she continued, "I did not know. Miles could not have known, or he would have sent us a message. You must have been very dull." "I wanted _you_, of course," Paul admitted truthfully, "but I would not have had you disturbed. I ought not to have expected more of your company than the few minutes you could give me on leave-taking." So saying, Paul Charteris seated himself beside her upon the broad, shallow step, and possessed himself of one of the passive hands. "What have you been doing?" he asked gently. Hazel regarded the captive hand, or rather its prison, but her thoughts were not of it. "Mr. Charteris," she said, timidly lifting her eyes to his, as with an effort she decided to speak her mind, "do you think—would it be very odd, if I sat behind in the phaeton, with—with the trunk, you know? Do you suppose Digby would mind, or think me very rude?" "He would have no right to object," Paul answered warmly, pleased that she had appealed to him. "If he annoys you, he cannot expect better treatment." "But that is my trouble," she explained, disengaging her hand to take up and fondle a fluffy ball of a kitten. "He only annoys me by being too nice. So it seems unkind to feel annoyed. If only one could sit with one’s back to the horse for fear of draughts and smuts," she went on, "as one would, with one’s back to an engine! I want to sit so that he cannot look into my face every time that he says anything."