"That's my affair," said Nap. He was still faintly smiling, but his smile appalled her. It was so cold, so impersonal, so void of all vitality. "Really, you had better go," he said. But Dot's dread had begun to take tangible form. Perhaps the very shock she had undergone had served to awaken in her some of the dormant instincts of her womanhood. She stood her ground, obedient to an inner prompting that she dared not ignore. "Will you--walk a little way with me?" she said at last. For the first time Nap's eyes looked at her intently, searched her closely, unsparingly. She faced the scrutiny bravely, but she trembled under it. At the end of a lengthy pause he spoke. "Are you going to faint?" "No," she answered quickly. "I never faint. Only--only--I do feel--rather sick." He put his hand under her arm with a suddenness that allowed of no protest and began to march her up the hill. Long before they reached the top Dot's face was scarlet with exertion and she was gasping painfully for breath; but he would not let her rest till they were over the summit and out of sight of the valley and what lay there. Then, to her relief, he stopped. "Better now?" "Yes," she panted. His hand fell away from her. He turned to go. But swiftly she turned also and caught his arm "Nap, please--" she begged, "please--" He stood still, and again his eyes scanned her. "Yes?" The brief word sounded stern, but Dot was too anxious to take any note of that. "Come a little farther," she urged. "It--it's lonely through the wood." "What are you afraid of?" said Nap. She could not tell him the truth, and she hesitated to lie. But his eyes read her through and through without effort. When he turned and walked beside her she was quite sure that he had fathomed the unspeakable dread which had been steadily growing within her since the moment of their meeting. He did not say another word, merely paced along with his silent tread till they reached the small wood through which her path lay. Dot's anger had wholly left her, but her fear remained. A terrible sense of responsibility was upon her, and she was utterly at a loss as to how to cope with it. Her influence over this man she believed to be absolutely nil. She had not the faintest notion how to deal with him. Lady Carfax would have known, she reflected, and she wished with all her heart that Lady Carfax had been there. He vaulted the stile into the wood, and held up his hand to her. As she placed hers within it she summoned her resolution and spoke. "Nap, I'm sorry I said what I did just now." He raised his brows for the fraction of a second. "I forget what you said." She flushed a little. "Because you don't choose to remember. But I am sorry I spoke all the same. I lost my temper, and I--I suppose I had no right to." "Pray don't apologise," he said. "It made no difference, I assure you."