Priscilla’s thoughts were so far away that she turned her head and gazed vaguely at him for a moment while she collected them again.  Then she frowned at him.  I do not know why Robin should have had at least several smiles and poor Tussie only frowns, unless it was that during this walk the young person Ethel Schultz had completely faded from Priscilla’s mind and the Royal Highness was well to the fore.  She certainly frowned at Tussie and asked herself what could possess the man to keep on speaking to her.  Keep on speaking!  Poor Tussie.  Aloud she said freezingly, “Did you say something?”

“Yes,” said Tussie, his eyes on her mouth—­surely a mouth only made for kindness and gentle words.  “I was wondering whether you were staying at the vicarage.”

“No,” said Priscilla, “we’re staying at Baker’s Farm.”  And at the mention of that decayed lodging the friendly Schultz expression crept back, smiling into her eyes.

Tussie stopped short.  “Baker’s Farm?” he said.  “Why, then this is the way; down here, to the right.  It’s only a few yards from here.”

“Were you going that way too?”

“I live on the other side of Symford.”

“Then good-bye and thank you.”

“Please let me go with you as far as the high-road—­it’s almost dark.”

“Oh no—­I can’t lose myself again if it’s only a few yards.”

She nodded, and was turning down the lane.

“Are you—­are you comfortable there?” he asked hurriedly, blushing.  “The Pearces are tenants of ours.  I hope they make you comfortable?”

“Oh, we’re only going to be there a few days.  My uncle is buying a cottage, and we shall leave almost directly.”

The girl Ethel nodded and smiled and went away quickly into the dusk; and Tussie rode home thoughtfully, planning elaborate plans for a descent the next day upon Baker’s Farm that should have the necessary air of inevitableness.

Fritzing was raging up and down the road in front of the gate when Priscilla emerged, five minutes later, from the shadows of the lane.  She ran up to him and put her arm through his, and looked up at him with a face of great penitence.  “Dear Fritzi,” she said, “I’m so sorry.  I’ve been making you anxious, haven’t I?  Forgive me—­it was the first taste of liberty, and it got into my feet and set them off exploring, and then I lost myself.  Have you been worrying?”

He was immensely agitated, and administered something very like a scolding, and he urged the extreme desirability of taking Annalise with her in future wherever she went—­("Oh nonsense, Fritzi,” interjected Priscilla, drawing away her arm)—­and he declared in a voice that trembled that it was a most intolerable thought for him that two strange men should have dared address her in the churchyard, that he would never forgive himself for having left her there alone—­("Oh, Fritzi, how silly,” interjected Priscilla)—­and he begged her almost with tears to tell him exactly what she had said to them, for her Grand Ducal Highness must see that it was of the first importance they should both say the same things to people.