“Oh, Geoff! you good boy, I was half afraid you would not come. I never was more glad to see you--I do so hate this lonely dark wood. They say a murder was committed here years ago,” she added, drawing closer to him and shuddering. “Come, we must be quick,” she chattered on; “I shall get into dreadful hot water, I am so late, and I am so tired I can hardly crawl. Not that I mind, only Helen makes such a fuss if she sees me looking pale and sleepy. Why don’t you speak, you lazy fellow? you are always smoking. Who would think you had such an arm,” pinching him; “it’s like a blacksmith’s; the muscles feel as if they would burst the sleeve of your coat. I shall have no compunction in leaning pretty heavily, I can tell you.” “Are you dumb, Geoffrey; or are you in the sulks?” A sudden idea struck her. It was _not_ Geoffrey after all; perhaps--agonising thought!--it was some utter stranger whom she had thus cavalierly appropriated. “What _have_ I done?” she cried, horror-struck, and endeavouring to release her hand. “Please let me go, whoever you are,” she pleaded piteously. By this time they were close to the road, and by the light of the newly-risen moon she saw her husband, and stood aghast. “Geoffrey was, or said he was, too lazy to come,” he remarked, helping her over the stile, “so I came as his substitute. I daresay you will find my arm quite as efficient a support,” coolly replacing her hand. “Oh, but indeed,” struggling to withdraw it, and struggling in vain, “I never dreamt it was you, or I would not--I would not----” “Have taken such a liberty,” he interrupted. “No, I daresay not.” “There is no necessity to show me such politeness now,” she exclaimed hotly; “it is only in public, as you said yourself, that you are to pay me any attention. Let my hand go, please; I can walk very well without any assistance.” “Nevertheless, as you admitted just now that you were tired, you will have to do violence to your feelings for once and accept my arm, much as you dislike it; and if the high road is not a public place, I should like to know what is. Why did you not defer this visit till to-morrow? No wonder you are tired, after playing lawn-tennis all the afternoon. What can have possessed you to take such a walk?” he asked, slackening his pace. “I could not have slept,” she rejoined, “if I had not, for I had not been to see Lucy for a week, and my conscience was telling me I had neglected her.” “Oh then you _have_ a conscience?” he observed gravely. “Of course I have. What an odd question! Why do you ask?” “Mere idle curiosity. Who is this Lucy Summers you have been to see?” “A girl who is very ill; she thinks so much of my visits, poor thing; but she does me far more good than I have it in my power to do her. She is truly fit for heaven, if anyone can be so.” “She is dying, is she not?” “Yes, of consumption; and she is only my age. If I were like her I should be glad to go--only for Maurice.”