She leant on his shoulder and hopped a dozen paces. “How did it happen, mademoiselle?” “Imbecile that I am! I think I was dreaming. I had filled the pail and was descending the embankment when I slipped. I tried to step across the pail, but caught my foot in the rim. And then—I don’t know quite what happened. I fell. It is the other ankle which I fear I have sprained.” “I am indeed most desolated. Is it far to the inn?” “You see it yonder, monsieur. It is perhaps ten minutes’ walk, but twenty minutes’ hop.” She laughed gayly, and Monsieur Roget said solemnly: “If I might suggest it—I think it would be more comfortable for Mademoiselle if she would condescend to place her arm round my neck.” “It is too good of you.” They proceeded another hundred paces in silence, and then rested against a stile. Suddenly she gave him one of her quick glances, and said: “You are very silent, monsieur.” “I was thinking—how very beautiful the day is.” As a matter of fact, he was not thinking anything of the sort. He was in a fever. He was thinking how very beautiful, adorable, attractive this lovely wild creature was hanging round his neck. He had never before adventured such an experience. He had never kissed Lucile. Women were an unopened book to him, and lo! suddenly the most captivating of her sex was clinging to him. He felt the pressure of her soft brown forearm on the back of his neck. Her little teeth were parted with smiles, and she panted gently with the exertion of hopping. Her dark eyes searched his, and appeared to be slightly mocking, amused, interested. “If only I might pick her up and carry her,” he thought, but he did not dare to make the suggestion. Once she remarked: “Oh, but I am tired,” and he thought she looked at him slyly. The journey must have occupied half-an-hour, and she told him a little about herself. She lived with her father. Her mother had died when she was a baby. It was quite a small inn, frequented by charcoal-burners and woodmen, and occasionally by visitors from Paris. She liked the country very much, but sometimes it was dull—oh, dull, dull, dull! “Ah, it is sometimes dull, even in Paris!” sighed Monsieur Roget. “You must come and speak to my father, and take a glass of wine,” she remarked. In the forecourt of the inn the father appeared. “Hullo!” he exclaimed. “What is all this?” He was a rubicund, heavy-jowled gentleman, who by the wheezy exhalations coming from his chest gave the impression of being a chronic sufferer from asthma. Diane laughed. “I have been through fire and water, my dear,” she said, “and this is my deliverer.” She explained the whole episode to the landlord, who shook hands with Paul, and they led the girl into a sitting-room at the back of the café. Paul was somewhat diffident about entering this private apartment, but the landlord wheezed: “Come in, come in, monsieur.”