“Tha mun come to the cottage one time,” he said, “shall ta? We might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.”

It puzzled her, his queer, persistent wanting her, when there was nothing between them, when he never really spoke to her, and in spite of herself she resented the dialect. His “tha mun come” seemed not addressed to her, but some common woman. She recognized the foxglove leaves of the riding and knew, more or less, where they were.

“It’s quarter past seven,” he said, “you’ll do it.” He had changed his voice, seemed to feel her distance. As they turned the last bend in the riding towards the hazel wall and the gate, he blew out the light. “We’ll see from here,” he said, taking her gently by the arm.

But it was difficult, the earth under their feet was a mystery, but he felt his way by tread: he was used to it. At the gate he gave her his electric torch. “It’s a bit lighter in the park,” he said; “but take it for fear you get off th’ path.”