There was only room for one in the path. He passed me, taking a huge stride through the undergrowth, and turning round blocked the way. “What is the matter?” he asked, quietly. “What have I done? Why are you trying to avoid me, like this?” “I do not understand you, Mr. Deville,” I answered, untruthfully, and with burning cheeks. “Be so good as to let me pass.” “Not till you tell me how I have contrived to offend you,” he answered, bluntly. “I called three times at the Vicarage last week. You would not see me; you were at home. I found that out, but you would not see me. The answer was the same each time, and now this afternoon you have done your best to avoid me. I want to know why.” His tone and his attitude were alike uncompromising. I looked round in vain for some means of escape. It was not possible. After all this was no breach of my compact with the girl. I felt simply powerless. “You have not offended me--not yet, at any rate,” I said, with emphasis. “If you keep me standing here against my will another minute you most certainly will though. Please let me pass, I am in a hurry to get home.” “Very well, then, I will walk with you,” he declared, standing on one side. “There is no room,” I remarked. “We will see about that,” he answered. He moved from in front of me, and then, leaving me the whole path, came crashing through the underwood and bracken by my side. I walked along swiftly, and he kept pace with me. After all he seemed to have nothing to say. We had almost reached the Rectory gate before he opened his mouth. “Then you will not tell me why you have avoided me the last few days, Miss Ffolliot. What have I done to lose your good opinion?” There was a curious earnestness in his tone. I felt my cheeks flush. I might perhaps have answered him in a different manner, but suddenly my eyes were riveted on a moving figure coming along the road into which we had stepped. I looked at it steadily. It was Olive Berdenstein, plodding along through the thick mud with careful, mincing footsteps, her long, loose cape and waving hat, easily distinguishable even at that distance. I stepped forward hastily, and before he could stop me, he passed through the gate. “Do not wait, please, Mr. Deville,” I said, looking round at him. “There is a friend of yours coming round the lane. Go and meet her, and do not say anything about me.” He was very rude and very profane. He made use of an expression in connection with Olive Berdenstein which justified me in hurrying away. I turned my back upon him and ran up the drive. “Miss Ffolliot,” he cried out, “one moment; I am very sorry. I apologize most abjectly.” I turned round and waved my hand. Anything to get rid of him. “Very well! Go and meet Miss Berdenstein, please.”