"As long as you like." She studied my face, with a mental effort to remember me, which gathered her pretty eyebrows together quaintly in a frown. "There's something in his eyes," she remarked, not speaking to me but to herself, "which doesn't seem to be quite strange. But I don't know his voice, and I don't know his beard." She considered a little, and addressed herself directly to me once more. "Now I look at you again, you seem to be a gentleman. Are you one?" "I hope so." "Then you're not making game of me?" "My dear, I am only trying if you can remember Gerard Roylake." While in charge of the boat, the miller's daughter had been rowing with bared arms; beautiful dusky arms, at once delicate and strong. Thus far, she had forgotten to cover them up. The moment mentioned my name, she started back as if I had frightened her--pulled her sleeves down in a hurry--and hid the objects of my admiration as an act of homage to myself! Her verbal apologies followed. "You used to be such a sweet-spoken pretty little boy," she said, "how should I know you again, with a big voice and all that hair on your face?" It seemed to strike her on a sudden that she had been too familiar. "Oh, Lord," I heard her say to herself, "half the county belongs to him!" She tried another apology, and hit this time on the conventional form. "I beg your pardon, sir. Welcome back to your own country, sir. I wish you good-night, sir." She attempted to escape into the cottage; I followed her to the threshold of the door. "Surely it's not time to go to bed yet," I ventured to say. She was still on her good behavior to her landlord. "Not if you object to it, sir," she answered. This recognition of my authority was irresistible. Cristel had laid me under an obligation to her good influence for which I felt sincerely grateful--she had made me laugh, for the first time since my return to England. "We needn't say good-night just yet," I suggested; "I want to hear a little more about you. Shall I come in?" She stepped out of the doorway even more rapidly than she had stepped into it. I might have been mistaken, but I thought Cristel seemed to be actually alarmed by my proposal. We walked up and down the river-bank. On every occasion when we approached the cottage, I detected her in stealing a look at the ugly modern part of it. There could be no mistake this time; I saw doubt, I saw anxiety in her face. What was going on at the mill? I made some domestic inquiries, beginning with her father. Was the miller alive and well? "Oh yes, sir. Father gets thinner as he gets older--that's all." "Did he send you out by yourself, at this late hour, in the boat?" "They were waiting for a sack of flour down there," she replied, pointing in the direction of the river-side village. "Father isn't as quick as he used to be. He's often late over his work now."