“Oh, if you’re afraid of a drop of rain—­” And Amber walked on witheringly.  It was a clever move.

Walter followed in silence.  Amber did not become aware of him till she was in the middle of an embryonic footpath through tall bracken that made way, courtseying, for the rare pedestrian.

“Oh!” She gave a little scream.  “I thought you were studying the bees—­or the moles.”

“I have only been studying your graceful back.”

“How mean!  Behind my back!” She laughed, pleased.  “I hope you haven’t discovered anything Bismarckian about my back.”

“Only in the sense that I followed it, and must follow—­till the path widens.”

“Ah, how you must hate following—­you, so terrible ambitious.”

“The path will widen,” he said composedly.

She planted her feet firm on Mother Earth—­as though it were literally her own mother—­and turned a mocking head over a tantalising shoulder.  “I shall stay still right here.”

He smiled maliciously.  “And I, too; I follow you no farther.”

“Oh, you are just too cute,” she said with a laugh of vexation and pleasure.  “You make me go on just to make you follow; but it is really you that make me lead.  That’s what you mean by Bismarckism, isn’t it?”

“You put it beautifully.”

She swung round to face him.  “Is there nothing you admire but Force?”

“Not Force—­Power!”

“What’s the difference?”

“Force is blind.”

“So is love,” she said.  “Do you scorn that?” And her smile was daring and dazzling.

Ere he could reply Nature outdid her in dazzlement, and superadded a crash of thunder.

“Yes,” he said, as though there had been no interruption.  “I scorn all that is blind—­even this storm that may strike you and me.  Ah! the rain,” as the great drops began to fall.  “Poor Lady Chelmer—­without an umbrella.”

“We can shelter by these shrubs.”  In an instant she was crouching amid the ferns on a carpet of autumn leaves, making space for him beside her.

“Thank you—­I will stand,” he said coldly.  “But I don’t know if you’re aware these are oak-shrubs.”

“What of it?”

“I was only thinking of the Swiss proverb about lightning, ’Vor den Eichen sollst du weichen.’  We ought to make for the beeches.”

“I’m not going to leave my umbrella.  I am sorry you won’t accept a bit of it.”  And she bent the tall ferns invitingly towards him.

“I don’t like cowering even before the rain,” he laughed.  “How it brings out the beautiful earthy smell.”

“One enjoys the beautiful earthy smell the better for being nearer to the earth.”

He did not reply.