"If I did, it would only be to enclose his letter in an envelope and send it back to him," she said. "If--if it is possible that he wrote it impulsively, and is regretting it, do you think I would move one little finger to recall him?" And on the whole Mrs Wentworth saw that it was best for her to keep _her_ fingers, for the present anyway, out of the pie. The road--the latter part of it at least--from Cobbolds to The Fells, was straight and direct. There was no possibility of missing any one on his way to the house within a mile. The first gates opened on to a sort of continuation of the drive--less carefully kept than the part within them, but still a private road. And before emerging on to the highway it led through a little fir-wood, where, as somewhat screened from the observation of any curious passers-by--not that many such were probable, for the men were shooting in a different direction that day, and a large party had started to join them at luncheon--Imogen had determined to try to meet Major Winchester. She walked quietly, half unconsciously hoping by so doing to calm her momentarily-increasing agitation. The first time she emerged from among the firs there was no one to be seen in the stretch, of open road before her. So she retraced her steps, and it was not till she had traversed the little wood two or three times that she descried a tall, familiar figure moving quickly towards her. And in another moment, considerably to her surprise, she saw that she was herself--as she supposed-- recognised. For Major Winchester took off his cap and waved it towards her. "How could he know I was coming?" she thought, with a thrill of gratification nevertheless. "A letter must have miscarried. He _must_ have written to me as well as to Florence." CHAPTER ELEVEN. IN THE FIR-COPPICE. But the reassuring thrill lasted barely a moment. Suddenly, as Imogen walked on, feeling that every step was bringing the meeting nearer, a terrible, agonising rush of shyness and shame overwhelmed her. For the first time she realised that she was going, unbidden, uninvited, to seek an interview with this man whose position to herself was still so undefined, whose conduct had been so inexplicable! She, who had so proudly declared to her mother that not one finger would she move to influence him, were it the case that he had acted upon an impulse which he had afterwards regretted! It was all Trixie's doing, she said to herself. Not that Trixie had suggested her taking Florence's place, but she had alluded to the thing so simply, as if it were the most natural idea in the world to go to meet Rex on his way up.