When they reached the first stile Phoebe lifted her skirts and pattered up to it, stood poised upon its crest, and then, with a little gasp, yielded to Archelaus’s strong arms as he seized her and swung her down bodily.

“Such a lil’ bit of a thing as you be,” said Archelaus; “like a lil’ cat in my arms, so soft and all.”

They went on, he leading and brushing away the tendrils of bramble and the tougher branches of furze across the narrow cliff-path.  At each stile he lifted her, only now he picked her up as they approached and carried her right over them.  At the last stile he held her instead of putting her down when they reached the further side.

“Put me down, Archelaus,” she whispered.  He still held her, his hands beneath her armpits, so that they cupped the curve of her breast, her face just beneath his, her feet dangling.

“I’ll have a kiss afore putten ’ee down, then.  I’ve never kissed ’ee since you was a lil’ maid to school.”

“No!” said Phoebe; “no!” She did not know why she protested; she had been kissed with the awkward shy kisses of youth often enough for her years, but she turned her mouth this way and that to escape his.  He went on holding her in air, though his arms were beginning to tremble a little with the strain, and simply followed her mouth with his, brushing it lightly.  Suddenly she felt she could bear no longer that easy mastery, those following lips that passed and repassed over hers and could so easily have settled if they chose.  Why didn’t they?  She turned like a little animal, and instead of evading any longer, sank her lips into his.

She hung there then, helpless indeed; for his mouth, no longer making a play of hers, held it, bore it down.  When he released her he dropped her on to her feet at the same time.  Phoebe turned from him and ran towards the mill.  He followed leisurely, sure of her next action as only his experience of women could have made him sure, and found her, for all her flight, waiting for him in the shadow of the door.

“You shouldn’t,” she murmured.  “I had to wait and tell you you shouldn’t.  ’Tesn’t right or fitty to kiss that way.  It frightens me, Archelaus.”

“Why edn’ it right?”

“Because—­because we aren’t wed,” faltered Phoebe.

“Wed!...”  In his voice was light laughter and a kindly scorn.  “What’s wed but a word?  We’re men and women on this earth; that’s all that matters to my way of thinken!”

Phoebe was vaguely hurt and insulted, which did duty for being shocked very well.  She opened the door and passed into the passage.

“I’d best be going,” she said, still half-wishful to linger—­anxious not to make herself cheap, yet wishing he would start some conversation which would make it possible to stay without seeming to want to over much.

“When’ll you be out again?” asked Archelaus, his foot in the door.

“I don’t know.”