Ima had put on shoes and stockings when she reappeared from the van and joined Percival to accompany him to the Ridge. The two were come almost to the Down's skirt before they exchanged words. "I have things to do before bedtime," Percival had told Japhra; and as he walked he was too occupied by the thoughts of what he purposed--hunted by them as the tumult of his concerns had hunted him earlier in the day--to give attention to Ima who had come with him when he had preferred to be alone. She was perhaps aware of that. She followed the half of a pace behind the short, impatient steps that partnered--and signified--his mood, her eyes watching what of his face she could see and ever and again turning swiftly ahead, as though she feared he might catch her at it and feared that might offend him; so a dog that knows itself unwanted may be seen, wistful at its master's heels--with little wags of a timid tail and with beseeching glances; eager to communicate some succour to this angry mood; afraid to hazard what may further vex. Yet he was pleasant when presently he spoke to her. They stepped from a dense lane about whose mouth and overhead the arching brambles trailed as though to curtain a sanctuary from trespass by outer dust and breeze and light. Before them the Down ran smooth and grey to where, beneath the moon, it took a silver rim along the line of Plowman's Ridge. A harsher scent was here than briar and wild rose breathed within the lane and jealously entwined to hold there; the breeze came with a swifter touch to the face; the light challenged the eyes that the gloom had rested. Together their effects aroused Percival's senses from his thoughts to his companion. "Warmer now, Ima?" he asked. "Warmer now, little master," and she smiled and added: "unseemly to call thee that, now thou hast grown so." He moved with her to a gate that faced the Down. "Let's rest a bit," he said. "Why, we've both grown, Ima, since the last time I saw you. You've grown. You've put up your hair--properly grown up. I shall have to treat you with terrible respect." She did not respond to his light tone. Her eyes that looked quietly at him had a grave air. "I am a gipsy girl to thee," she said. "I am not for thy respect--such as me. For ladies that." And before he could answer her she went on: "What of that little lady thou hast told me of--Snow-White-and-Rose-Red as thou didst name her to me?" He did not notice a changed tone--to be described as stiff--in her voice. It did not occur to him that in the matter of his respect she made comparison between herself and her whom she named with his fond name for her; he was only surprised and only grateful to have that name spoken to him. "Why, she's grown," he said. "Fancy you remembering her, Ima!" Eagerness was in his voice. "I am cold again," she told him, and drew away. "Let us go up the Down."