It was not open to Lydia to swear, and she had no time for the usual feminine exclamations before she heard a voice behind her.

“Allow me—­can I be of any use?”

She turned in astonishment, extricating her wet foot, and clambered back on to the bank.  A young man stood there, civilly deferential.  His bicycle lay on the grass at the edge of the road, which was only a few steps away.

“I saw you slip in, and thought perhaps I might help.  You were trying to reach something, weren’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter, thank you,” said Lydia, whose cheeks had gone pink.

The young man looked at her, and became still more civil.

“What was it?  That piece of paper?  Oh, I’ll get it in a moment.”

And splashing from stone to stone in the river-bed, he had soon reached a point where, with the aid of Lydia’s stick, the bedraggled cutting was soon fished out and returned to its owner.  Lydia thanked him.

“But you’ve wet both your feet!” She looked at them, with concern.  “Won’t it be very uncomfortable, bicycling?”

“I haven’t far to go.  Oh, by the way, I was just looking out for somebody to ask—­about this road—­and I couldn’t see a soul, till just as I came out of the little wood there”—­he pointed—­“I saw you—­slipping in.”

They both laughed.  Lydia returned to her camp stool, and began to put up her sketching things.

“What is it you want to know?”

“Is this the road for Whitebeck?”

“Yes, certainly.  You come to a bridge and the village is on the other side.”

“Thank you.  I don’t know these parts.  But what an awfully jolly valley!” He waved a hand toward it.  “And what do you think I saw about a mile higher up?” He had picked up his bicycle from the grass, and stood leaning easily upon it.  She could not but observe that he was tall and slim and handsome.  A tourist, no doubt; she could not place him as an inhabitant.

“I know!” she said smiling.  “You saw the otter hounds.  They passed me an hour ago.  Have they caught him?”

“Who? the otter?  Lord, no!  He got right away from them—­up a tributary stream.”

“Good!” said Lydia, as she shut her painting-box.

The young man hesitated.  He had clearly no right to linger any longer, but, as the girl before him seemed to him one of the most delicious creatures he had ever seen, he did linger.

“I wonder if I might ask you another question?  Can you tell me whether that fine old house over there is Duddon Castle?”

“Duddon Castle!” Lydia lifted her eyebrows.  “Duddon Castle is seven miles away.  That place is called Threlfall Tower.  Were you going to Duddon?”

“No.  But”—­he hesitated—­“I know young Tatham a little.  I should like to have seen his house.  But, that’s a fine old place, isn’t it?” He looked with curiosity at the pile of building rising beyond a silver streak of river, amid the fresh of the May woods.