Without answering the girl turned and began to retrace her steps.

“But you haven’t said you like me,” he called out, hurrying to her side.

Margaret did not speak; she only knew that her head was throbbing, that she heard but indistinctly the words of the man who kept close to her as they went on up the steep trail.  At the rock where she had been too quick for him, Sperry abruptly stepped in front of her, barring her way.

“Come now,” he said; “be sensible.  You must not go in to luncheon looking as you do.”  He put forth both hands to assist her up the rock; she offered her own mechanically, in a helpless sort of way, knowing it would be impossible to ascend otherwise while he was there.  A quick, steady pull, and she was abreast of him, the brim of her gay little hat touching for a second his waistcoat.  The moment was irresistible—­in that second he was conscious of the fragrance and warmth of her girlhood.  He felt her soft brown hands in his own, straining to release themselves.

“Don’t!” she faltered; “please—­I beg of you—­”

A voice behind him brought him to his senses: 

“Beg pardon, miss, but luncheon is served.”

It was Blakeman.  The butler stood respectfully aside to let them pass.  Slowly he followed the retreating form of the doctor and Margaret, his hands clenched.  For some seconds he stood immovable, then he broke hastily into the woods, cross-cutting back to his pantry.

“Damn him!” he muttered, as he squeezed the cork from a bottle of Pomard.  “I hadn’t a second to lose!”

At luncheon Blakeman served the Burgundy without a trace upon his round, smug face of the indignation surging within him.  His skilled hand replenished Sperry’s glass generously.

The doctor grew talkative; he told his complete set of luncheon stories with enthusiasm, while Margaret sat in grateful silence; she was in no mood to talk herself; the incident of the morning had left her depressed and nervous.

“She’s pulling out of it,” he said to Alice when the girl had left the room.  “Colour good and walks without losing her breath.  I think now you can dismiss all anxiety from your mind.  The woods have saved her life.”  What he said to himself was:  “I made a mess of this morning’s work; she’s not such a fool as I thought.”

The end of the week, and Sperry’s last (for Thayor, despite all of Alice’s numerous hints, had not asked that his visit be prolonged), brought Alice’s paradise to a close.  So far their days together had seemed like a dream—­his departure the next morning would mean the renewal of an ennui which would continue until she reached the month of freedom which her husband had promised her.

If Thayor had noticed his wife’s anxiety he made no sign.  He had gratified her wishes and she had been happy; further than that he did not care to go.