Sylvia pondered her reply.  In spite of its dullness, Mrs. Lansing’s house was a comfortable and secure retreat.  She would have to go back to it presently, and it was desirable that she should avoid any cause of disagreement with her hostess.

“No,” she said candidly; “I don’t see any need for that; and I may not write for some time.  Of course, Muriel doesn’t quite look at things as I do, and on one or two points she’s unusually sensitive.”

Herbert looked amused.

“You’re considerate; and I dare say you’re right.  There doesn’t seem to be any reason why Muriel should concern herself about the thing, particularly as you’re in Susan’s hands.”

The implied promise that he would not mention his having seen her afforded Sylvia some relief, but when he went away to speak to Mrs. Kettering, she wished she had not met him.  Herbert was troubled by none of his wife’s prejudices, but on another occasion he had made her feel that she owed him something for which he might expect some return, and now the impression was more marked; their secret, though of no importance, had strengthened his position.  Herbert seldom granted a favor without an end in view; and she did not wish him to get too firm a hold on her.  The feeling, however, wore off, and she had spent a pleasant afternoon when Bland came for her as the shadows lengthened.

He reminded her of Ethel: 

“We’ll have to get off, if we’re to pick up Miss West.”

Sylvia said that she was ready, though she felt it would have been more satisfactory had Ethel been allowed to go back by train.  They began the journey, but after a few miles the car stopped on a steep rise.  The driver with some trouble started the engine, but soon after they had crossed the crest of the hill it stopped again, and he looked grave as he supplied Bland with some details that Sylvia found unintelligible.

“You must get her along another mile; then you can go back on a bicycle for what you want,” Bland told him, and turned to Sylvia.  “We’ll be delayed for an hour or so, but he can leave word for Miss West, and there’s an inn not far off where they’ll give us tea while we’re waiting.”

They reached it after turning into another road, though the car made alarming noises during the journey.  Sylvia viewed the old building with appreciation.  It stood, long and low and cleanly white-washed, on the brink of a deep ghyll filled with lichened boulders and russet ferns, with a firwood close behind it, and in front a wide vista of moors and fells that stood out darkly blue against the evening light.  Near the stone porch, a rustic table stood beside a row of tall red hollyhocks.

“It’s a charming spot,” Sylvia exclaimed.  “Can’t we have tea outside?”

Bland ordered it and they sat down to a neatly-served meal.  The evening was warm and very still and clear.  A rattle of wheels reached them from somewhere far down the road and they could hear the faint splash of water in the depths of the ravine.