Helen looked her surprise. "But it is so hot and dusty, Hazel. You will be quite tired by the time you reach London. I am sorry, dear, but I felt so sure you would like to drive. You so love driving," she added, puzzled, somewhat at a loss. Then a thought struck her. "Has Paul offended you in any way?" she asked gently, of a sudden. "Is it my fancy, or are you avoiding him?" "Oh no; he has not offended me," the girl made answer hastily, evasively. "But I love the walk, and—oh well, it does not matter, motherling." And the disturbed young face kissed the anxious one reassuringly, and Hazel went off to make herself ready. It was a very demure young lady, whom Paul handed into the trap, half an hour later; but, though she had regained her outward composure, her spirit had risen in revolt against her charioteer. She felt like a little snared hare, and was angry and shy all at once. She sat beside him mute, looking straight before her, and Paul from time to time endeavoured to get a peep at the face beneath the hat-brim. "We will drive slowly," he remarked at length. "If I give Ben Dyson his head, we should be at the station in ten minutes, and we have a good half-hour. Isn’t it glorious weather?" Hazel admitted that it was, and again relapsed into silence. "You are very quiet," Paul observed presently. "Won’t you talk to me, Hazel? I do hope you are not thinking it presumptuous in me, that I asked to drive you," he added anxiously. Hazel’s soft little heart began to melt. After all, it was very kind of him, and thoughtful. How was he to know she wanted to keep out of his way? She did not wish him to know; she hoped that, if by chance he noticed that he saw less of her than usual just now, he would put it down to mere coincidence. Probably he had not noticed; she hoped not—she did not wish to hurt or annoy him. "No," she answered quickly. Then, with shyness, gratitude, and dignity all fighting together, she added: "It was very kind of you—very. But I am fond of walking. I—I thought you might have asked me, and not mother," she concluded, with some severity. Then Paul determined to have it out with her. "Hazel," he asked, with grave directness, "answer me truly. Have I offended or hurt you in any way?" He tried to catch a glimpse of her face; but it was turned from him, her eyes in busy contemplation of the hedgerow. "No; oh no," she said hurriedly. "You have never seen Uncle Percival, have you?" she asked, bent upon turning the conversation. Paul was rather alarming, when earnest and grave and unchatty. "Hazel," he persisted, "tell me: Do you or do you not like driving?" "Oh, very much!" she exclaimed enthusiastically; "and it is a long, dreary walk," she added, off her guard.