Mrs. Woodburn, who was in the judgment of the vicar’s wife a good but curious woman, showed herself distressingly undistressed.

“Boy can look after herself, I guess,” she said, a thought grimly.

She reported later to Mat what Mrs. Haggard had told her and what she had replied to Mrs. Haggard.

Old Mat agreed.

“She can bite all right,” he said.  “Trust Boy.”

* * * * *

And Boy, as she walked down the hillside on leaving Mr. Silver and the old mare, felt like biting.

She was annoyed with Mr. Silver, annoyed with Joses, and, above all, annoyed with herself.

She had been mischievous, and now she was being punished for it.

She did not like Joses; and she did like being alone in the wood at dusk.

Her companion walked too close to her; he laughed too much; she was aware of that haunted and haunting eye of his rolling at her continually; and he smelt of alcohol.

Also he would talk.

“That’s Silver, is it?” he said familiarly, as they walked down the hill.

“That’s Mr. Silver,” she retorted.

His eye sought hers, questioning; but found nothing save a proud, cold face.

“Your dadda’s training for him, isn’t he?” continued the fat man.

Her dadda!

The cheek of it!

“I don’t know.”

“He’s a Croesus, isn’t he?”

“He’s not a greaser,” with warmth.

Joses laughed his unpleasant laughter.

“A Croesus, I said.  Rolling.  He’s the Bank of Brazil and Uruguay.”

“I don’t know,” replied the girl.  “I haven’t asked.”

They had reached the stile into the wood.

“Good-night,” she said.

“I’ll see you through the wood,” the other answered.

A moment she hesitated.  Should she after all go back by the field?  If she did he would think she was afraid.  And she was not, as she would show him.  But she wished that Billy Bluff was with her.  Reluctantly at length she climbed the stile and walked through the dusk.  He shambled at her side.

“Begun to bathe yet?” he asked.

“No.”

“You let me know when you begin, and I’ll come and paint you on the rocks.”

Her eyes flashed up at his.

“You won’t!” she said fiercely.

He edged in upon her, laughing sleekly.

“Saucy, is it?” he said.

“Keep off!” she cried.

“Wants taming, does it?”

He wound his arm about her.

“Let me go!”

She kicked his shins with her square-toed shoes.

She kicked hard and hurt him.

“You little devil!” he snorted.

He pressed her to him, seeming to smother her, like an offensive blanket.

His red beard brushed her forehead; his hot face crowded down on hers; and above all his great red nose protruded above her like an inflamed banana.