“But why,” she said with her head still slightly turned away toward a figure—­a sturdy-looking woman, which, for the first time, Hoffman perceived was walking in a line with them as the chasseur had done—­“why did you come here at all?”

“The first time was a fool accident,” he returned frankly.  “I was making a short cut through what I thought was a public park.  The second time was because I had been rude to a Police Inspector whom I found going through my things, but who apologized—­as I suppose—­by getting me an invitation from the Grand Duke to come here, and I thought it only the square thing to both of ’em to accept it.  But I’m mighty glad I came; I wouldn’t have missed you for a thousand dollars.  You see I haven’t struck anyone I cared to talk to since.”  Here he suddenly remarked that she hadn’t looked at him, and that the delicate whiteness of her neck was quite suffused with pink, and stopped instantly.  Presently he said quite easily: 

“Who’s the chorus?”

“The lady?”

“Yes.  She’s watching us as if she didn’t quite approve, you know—­just as if she didn’t catch on.”

“She’s the head housekeeper of the farm.  Perhaps you would prefer to have her show you the dairy; shall I call her?”

The figure in question was very short and stout, with voluminous petticoats.

“Please don’t; I’ll stay without your setting that paperweight on me.  But here’s the dairy.  Don’t let her come inside among those pans of fresh milk with that smile, or there’ll be trouble.”

The young girl paused too, made a slight gesture with her hand, and the figure passed on as they entered the dairy.  It was beautifully clean and fresh.  With a persistence that he quickly recognized as mischievous and ironical, and with his characteristic adaptability accepted with even greater gravity and assumption of interest, she showed him all the details.  From thence they passed to the farmyard, where he hung with breathless attention over the names of the cows and made her repeat them.  Although she was evidently familiar with the subject, he could see that her zeal was fitful and impatient.

“Suppose we sit down,” he said, pointing to an ostentatious rustic seat in the center of the green.

“Sir down?” she repeated wonderingly.  “What for?”

“To talk.  We’ll knock off and call it half a day.”

“But if you are not looking at the farm you are, of course, going,” she said quickly.

“Am I?  I don’t think these particulars were in my invitation.”

She again broke into a fit of laughter, and at the same time cast a bright eye around the field.

“Come,” he said gently, “there are no other sightseers waiting, and your conscience is clear,” and he moved toward the rustic seat.

“Certainly not—­there,” she added in a low voice.

They moved on slowly together to a copse of willows which overhung the miniature stream.