She does not think long; in fact, there is no time to lose. The man and the dog must pass over Arthur's Bridge if they follow the path. She can intercept them there by taking a short cut through the Trings; a name with a forgotten origin, which hugs the spot unaccountably. "I wonder what a tring was, and when" says Gwendolen to herself, between those unsolved riddles and the bridge. The bridge is a little stone bridge, just wide enough for a chaise to go through gently. Gwendolen has soaked her shoes to reach it. Still, she _must_ save that dog from the Ranger's gun at any cost. A fig for the wet! She has to dress for dinner--indeed, her maid is waiting for her now--and dry stockings will be a negligible factor in that great total. There comes the pedestrian round by Swayne's Oak--another name whose origin no man knows. The dog catches sight of her, and is off like a shot, his master trying vainly to whistle him back. The young lady is quite at ease--_she_ is not afraid of dogs! She even laughs at this one's demonstrative salute, which leaves a paw-mark on either shoulder. For dogs do not scruple to kiss those they love, without making compliments. His master is apologetic, coming up with a quickened pace. At a rebuke from him the collie becomes apologetic too; would be glad to explain, but is handicapped by language. He is, however, all repentance, and falls back behind his master, leaving matters in his hands. At the least--though the way of doing it may have been crude--he has brought about an introduction, of a sort. There is no intrusive wish on the man's part to take undue advantage of it. His speech, "Achilles means well; it is only his cordiality," seems to express the speaker's feeling that somehow he is certain to be understood. His addendum--"I am really as sorry as I can be, all the same"--may be credited to ceremonial courtesy, flavoured with contrition. His wind-up has a sort of laugh behind it:--"Particularly because I have no business in this part of the Park at all. I can only remedy that by my absence." "You will promise me one thing, if you please...." "Yes--whatever you wish." "Lead your dog till you are outside the Park. If he is seen he may be shot. I could not bear that that dog should be shot." Something in the man's tone and manner has made it safe for the girl to overstep the boundaries of chance speech to an utter stranger. He has no right--that he feels--to presume upon this semi-confidence of an impulsive girl, whoever she is. True, her beauty in that last glory of the sunset puts resolution to the test. But he _has_ no right, and there's an end on't! "I will tie Achilles up," he says. "I should not like him to be shot." "Oh!--is he Achilles?" "His mother was Thetis."