Through the narrow streets I made no attempt to ride beside her.  In the van went three of my men; then rode I; then, about ten yards behind, came Dolly and her maid.  Then came two pack-horses, led by a fellow who controlled them both; and my fourth man closed the dismal cavalcade.  So we went through the streets—­all the way down the Strand and into the City, wheeled to the left, and so out by Bishopsgate.  It was a clear kind of day, without rain:  but the clouds hung low, and I thought it would rain before nightfall.  I intended to do the whole journey in a day; so as to be at Hare Street before midnight at least.  A night on the way, and Dolly’s company at supper, all alone with me, or even with her maid, appeared to me too formidable to face.

When we were out in the country, I reined my horse in.  I saw a change pass over Dolly’s face; then it became like stone.

“We have a long ride, for one day,” said I.

She made no answer.  My anger rose a little.

“My Cousin,” I said, “I had the honour to speak to you.”

“I do not wish to have the dishonour of answering you,” said Dolly.

It was a weakness on her part to answer at all; but I suppose she could not resist the repartee.

“A very neat hit,” I said.  “Must all our conversation run upon these lines?”

She made no answer at all.

“Anne,” I said, “rein your horse back ten yards.”

“Anne,” said Dolly, “ride precisely where you are.”

“Very good,” said I.  “I have no objection to your maid hearing what I have to say.  I thought it would be you that would object.”

“Anne,” said Dolly, “did you pack the sarcenet?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Then tell me again the tale that you were—­”

I broke in with such fury that even Dolly ceased.

“My Cousin,” I said, “I have a louder voice than either of you; and I shall use it, if you do not listen, so that the whole countryside shall hear.  I have to say this—­that some time or another to-day I have to have a private conversation with you.  It is for you to choose the time and place.  If you give me no opportunity now, I shall make it myself, later.  Will you hear what I have to say now?”

There was a very short silence.

“Anne,” said Dolly, “now that we can hear ourselves speak, will you tell me again the tale that you began last night?”

She said it, not at all lightly, but with a coldness and a distilled kind of anger that gave me no choice.  I lifted my hat a little; shook my reins; and once more took up my position ten yards ahead.  There was a low murmur of voices behind; and then silence.  It appeared that the tale was not to be told after all.

* * * * *

We dined, very late, at a little inn, called the Cross-Keys, between Edmonton and Ware.  I remember nothing at all, either of the inn or the host or the food—­nothing but the name of the inn, for the name struck me, with a dreary kind of wit, as reflective of the cross-purposes which we were at.  We three dined together, in profound silence, except when Dolly addressed a word or two to her maid.  As for me, she took the food which I carved, all as if I were a servant, without even such a thank-you as a man gives to a servant.