"It is an insult to Norway to be reminded of it by storm and rain, but I
could fancy myself back there again. Why?"
Anne laughed.
"Which part of Norway?"
He answered promptly, "Gudvangen"; adding, meaningly, "And that was a
day of sunshine."
"Weather failing, you must be content with a frivolous association," she
said mirthfully; "it is merely that I am wearing the same hat and coat."
"You remembered, then?" he asked, gathering delicious assurance from the
fact.
"I don't think it is _I_ who have shown forgetfulness," said Anne, in a
low voice. In the same tone he returned--
"Certainly I cannot be accused of it."
It will be seen that matters were proceeding merrily, and unchecked--
rather, one might say, assisted--by the modest presence of Miss Tempest.
She being there, Wareham knew that he could not go to the point which
was as yet forbidden, and, feeling himself safe from that temptation,
had the delight of dallying round it, and venturing more closely than he
yet had dared. Anne, on her side, saw the advance, and not realising
that it was really favoured by limits, felt herself in the mood to be
swung along, and resolved as to the moment when her companion should
receive a hint to go. Meanwhile she flung her a crumb or two.
"The rain has grown harmless. You are not sorry I enticed you out,
Mary?"
"Sorry! I think it delightful."
It appeared that she was almost as rapturous as Wareham. Anne told him
of her step-mother's engagement, and found that he had guessed
something. He asked whether it affected her unpleasantly.
"Oh no, I am glad. We have never pulled together." She stopped
abruptly. "Pray where are we going?"
"Yesterday morning I came this way, and seeing a delightful path through
a wood," said Wareham eagerly, "I set my heart upon showing it to you."
"Well--" She walked on, holding her umbrella lightly poised, really
wondering whether Mary Tempest could be trusted to carry out her
directions naturally. "We escaped from Mrs Martyn when we came out,"
she said, laughingly. "I suspect they are all finding it rather dull,
shut up in the house. What is your mother doing, Mary?"
"She was writing to father." The girl came to a sudden stop. "Oh!"
"What is the matter?"
"Horace! Horace must be written to, and I have not done it!"
"The post goes out so early here, still--surely you will have time for a
not very long letter?"
"Oh, but this is to India, this must be a long letter. Dear Miss
Dalrymple, I am so sorry, but I am afraid I must go back!"
"Yes, I see. Well, we will all turn."
"No, no, I should never forgive myself; please go on, please don't think
of it! See, it is nothing for me to go so far by myself."
"You are sure?"
"Certain."
"Well, what do you say, Mr Wareham? Will you put up with but one
companion? I confess your wood attracts me."