“Take that letter and give it the gentleman it is addressed to, if he is there.  If he is not there, bring it back to me.”

“Yes, miss.”  The boy pocketed the letter and a shilling, and went whistling down the road.

So she had written, she had confessed her fault and asked for forgiveness—­that was like Joan.  One moment the haughty cold, proud woman, the next the child, admitting her faults and asking for pardon.

The letter had been duly delivered at Mrs. Bonner’s cottage, and, coming in later, Hugh found it.

“Bettses’ Bob brought it,” said Mrs. Bonner.  “From Miss Meredyth at the Hall,” she added, and looked curiously at Hugh.

“That’s all right, thanks!”

Mrs. Bonner quivered with curiosity.  Who was this lodger of hers who received letters from Miss Meredyth, when he had not even admitted that he knew her?

“Very funny!” thought Mrs. Bonner.

Hugh read the letter.  “I am sorry—­for what I did....  I ask you to forgive me....  Perhaps I have hurt myself more than I have hurt you ...”

“Any answer to go back to the Hall?”

“None!”

“Ah!” Mrs. Bonner hesitated.  “I didn’t know you knew Miss Meredyth.”

“I am going out,” said Hugh.  Avoid Mrs. Bonner while she was in this curious mood, he knew he must.

“If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it is secretiveness,” said Mrs. Bonner, as she watched him up the road towards the village.

Should he answer the letter?  Hugh wondered.  Or should he just accept it in silence, as an apology for an act of rudeness?  He hated that idea.  She might think that he did not forgive, that he bore malice and ill-will.

“No, I must answer it,” he decided, “but what shall I say?” He knew what he wanted to say, he knew that he wanted to ask her to meet him, and he knew only too well that she would refuse.

“There is no sense,” said Hugh deliberately, “no sense whatever in riding for a certain fall.”  He was staring at a small flaxen-haired, dirty-faced boy as he spoke.  The boy grinned at him.

“You have a sense of humour,” said Hugh, “and, no doubt, a sweet tooth.”  He felt in his pocket for the coin that the Starden children had grown to expect from him.  The boy took it, yelled and whooped, and sped down the street to the sweetstuff shop.

“But the fact remains,” said Hugh to himself, “there is no sense in deliberately riding for a fall.  If I asked her to meet me, she would either refuse or ignore the request, so I shall not ask.  Yet, all the same, she and I will meet sooner or later, and when we meet, it will be by accident, not by—­” He paused.  Outside the cycle-shop stood a small two-seater car that had a familiar look to Hugh.  As he glanced at the car its owner came out of the shop with a can of petrol in his hand.

He saw Hugh, looked him in the eyes, and nodded in friendly fashion.

“A nice day!” he said.