"I couldn't think what it was," she answered, a little less crossly. "I saw the tree tossing about as if--as if it had gone mad." "And you thought of dryads and hastened to the spot. And it was only an idiot and his aeroplane. I say--I _am_ sorry--" "You can't help not being a dryad," she said, and now she smiled, and her smile transformed her face as sunlight does a landscape. "What I really thought you were was a tramp. Only tramps never climb trees. I couldn't think how you got in here, though. Tramps never climb walls. They get in sometimes through the oak fence beyond the plantations." "It was very intrepid of you to face a tramp," he said. "Oh, I love tramps," she said; "they're always quite nice to you if you don't bully them or patronize them. There were two jolly ones last week, and I talked to them, and they made tea out in the road, you know, and gave me a cup over the fence. It _was_ nasty." She shuddered a little. "But I liked it awfully, all the same," she added. "I wish I were a tramp." "It's not a bad life," said he. "It's _the_ life," she said, enthusiastically. "No ties, no responsibilities--no nasty furniture and hateful ornaments--you just go where you like and do what you like; and when you don't like where you are, you go somewhere else; and when you don't like what you're doing, you needn't go on doing it." "Those are very irresponsible sentiments--for a lady." "I know. That's why I think it's so dull being a woman. Men can do whatever they want to." "Only if they haven't their living to earn," said Edward, not quite so much to himself as he would have liked. There was a little pause, and then, still less himself, he blundered into, "I say, it is jolly of you to talk to me like this." She froze at once. "I forgot," she said, "that we had not been introduced. Thank you for reminding me." Edward's better self was now wholly lost, and what was left of him could find nothing better to answer than, "Oh, I say!" "What I ought to have said," she went on, her face a mask of cold politeness, "is that you can't possibly get out by the lodge. There are fierce dogs. And the lodge-keepers are worse than the dogs. If you will follow me--at a distance, for fear I should begin to talk to you again--I'll show you where the gardener's ladder is, and you can put it up against the wall and get out that way." "Couldn't I get out where the tramps get in?" he asked, humbly. "I don't like to trouble you." "Not from here. We should have to pass close by the house." The "we" gave him courage. "I say--do forgive me," he said. "There's nothing to forgive," said she. "Oh, but do," he said, "if you'd only see it! It was just because it was so wonderful and splendid to have met you like this . . . and to have you talk to me as you do to the other tramps." "You're not a tramp," she said, "and I ought not to have forgotten it." "But I am," said he, "it's just what I really and truly am."