Halkett was looking at her with an eagerness through which her words could hardly pierce. She was wonderful to watch, soft as a kitten, swift as a bird. "What do you call him, George?" she said again, and tapped his boot. "'Charlie'--this one." She laughed. "You choose dull names. Is he as wicked as Daisy?" "Nothing like." "Why did you get him, then?" "I want him for hard work." "I believe you're lazy. If you don't walk you'll get fat. You're the kind of man that does." "Perhaps, but that's a long way off. Riding is hard work enough and my father was a fine man up to sixty." A thin shock of fear ran through her at the remembrance of old Halkett's ruined shape. "I was always frightened of him," she said in a small voice, and she looked at George as though she asked for reassurance. There was a cold grey light on the moor; darkness was not far off and it held a chill wind in leash. "Do you wish he wasn't dead?" she whispered. He lifted his shoulders and pursed his mouth. "No," he said. "Are you lonely in that house?" "There's Mrs. Biggs, you know," he said with a sneer. "Yes, I know," she murmured doubtfully, and drew closer. "So you don't think she's enough for me?" "Of course I don't. That's why I'm so kind to you. She couldn't be listening to us, could she? Everything seems to be listening." "So you're kind to me, are you?" "Yes," she said, raising her eyebrows and nodding her head, until she looked like a dark poppy in a wind. "And when I saw you on the road the other day you wouldn't look at me. That's the second time." "I did." "As if I'd been a sheep." "Oh!" Laughter bubbled in her. "You did look rather like one. I was occupied in thinking deeply, seriously, intently--" "That's no excuse." "My good George, I shouldn't think of excusing myself to you. I chose to ignore you and I shall probably ignore you again." "Two can play at that game." "Well, dear me, I shan't mind." He bent in the saddle, and she did not like the polished whiteness of his eyeballs. His voice was very low and heavy. "You think you can go on making a mock of me for ever." She started back. "No, George, no." "You do, by God!" He lifted his whip to shake it in the face of heaven. "Oh, don't, George, please! I can't stay"--she crept nearer--"if you go on like that. What have I done? It's you who treat me badly. Won't you be nice? Tell me about something." She put her face against the horse's neck. "Tell me about riding. It must be beautiful in the dark. Isn't it dangerous? Dare you gallop?" "Well, we do." "Such lots of rabbit-holes." "What does it matter?" "Oh, dear, you're very cross." "I can't help it," he said like an unhappy child. "I can't help it." And he put his hand to his head with an uncertain movement. "Oh." With a practical air she sought for an impersonal topic. "Tell me about Paris." "Paris." There was no need for him to speak above a murmur. "I want to take you there." "Do you?" He leant lower. "Will you come?"