“I’m not shod for walking,” she said, extending her foot in its silly, pretty covering. “I suppose I can change. Yes, I’ll go. I’ll not be long Kit. I’ll put on stout shoes and come right back.” Helen was as good as her word. She came cautiously down the stairs with her shoes unlaced; she knew the value of asking favours. “You don’t mind lacing them for me, Kit-the-kind, do you? It’s too warm to stoop!” Helen said, and thrust out a foot as she spoke, its ribbon dragging. She had the most shapely little foot in the world; there was no reason why Kit should not like to hold it and pull the ribbons over the high-arched instep. “Delighted, Miss Coquette!” said Kit, dropping on one knee, and Helen laughed, enjoying the thrust. “But didn’t you say _stout_ shoes?” Helen surveyed the delicate kid oxford as if it were a new acquaintance. “Of course they are stout, Kit; stout enough, at any rate,” she said, and sank back apparently relieved that her shoes had not deceived her. They went down the shaded street: Miss Carrington lived on the best street in Cleavedge. But as soon as possible Kit led the way into by-paths and across fields. Cleavedge had not grown large enough to push fields far from its best section. They had been driven a long distance away from its business streets and poorer homes--where they were more needed--but it did not take long to reach them from Miss Carrington’s house. “Let’s be babes-in-the-woods, Kitsy!” cried Helen, and put her hand into Kit’s. He took it cordially and they went on, swinging hands in imitation of childish ways, Helen singing softly. Her highly trained, light voice was a pleasure for its accuracy of tone and method. Helen’s pulses beat rapidly; through her quick brain rushed words that strove against her lips. She felt certain that her time had come, and for once did not stop to analyze whether it was the hour, or she herself, that was ready. Her will, her desires, were slipping their leash, and she was no longer equal to whipping them down. Yet, though they had got away from her, she was still able to follow them in silence. She ceased singing and went on, her hand clinging to Kit’s, still swinging her arm with his and smiling, her lips tight, her eyes straight ahead, avoiding his because she knew what was in them. He glanced at her two or three times, wondering what was wrong. The day was uncomfortable enough to account for anything; he remembered how small and light Helen’s shoes were and charitably refrained from asking whether she was tired. Since the day of little Anne’s rescue the leafy banks of the river had grown dense with green, spreading luxuriantly from the watered roots of trees and shrubs. Midsummer blossoms, insects, and birds filled the moist, hot air with fragrance and murmurs and songs. “It’s great, isn’t it, Helen?” sighed Kit, throwing himself down in the shade with a deep breath of enjoyment. “Worth the tramp,” she agreed.