“I came out because it was worse,” she said.  “It irritated me so that I could not stand the house any longer.”

“I will send to Callender for Dr. Macnuthrie.”

“Pray do nothing of the kind, Robert.  I do not want Dr. Macnuthrie at all.”

“Where there is illness, medical advice is always expedient.”

“I am not ill.  A headache is not illness.”

“I had thought it was,” said Mr. Kennedy, very drily.

“At any rate, I would rather not have Dr. Macnuthrie.”

“I am sure it cannot do you any good to climb up here in the heat of the sun.  Had you been here long, Finn?”

“All the morning;—­here, or hereabouts.  I clambered up from the lake and had a book in my pocket.”

“And you happened to come across him by accident?” Mr. Kennedy asked.  There was something so simple in the question that its very simplicity proved that there was no suspicion.

“Yes;—­by chance,” said Lady Laura.  “But every one at Loughlinter always comes up here.  If any one ever were missing whom I wanted to find, this is where I should look.”

“I am going on towards Linter forest to meet Blane,” said Mr. Kennedy.  Blane was the gamekeeper.  “If you don’t mind the trouble, Finn, I wish you’d take Lady Laura down to the house.  Do not let her stay out in the heat.  I will take care that somebody goes over to Callender for Dr. Macnuthrie.”  Then Mr. Kennedy went on, and Phineas was left with the charge of taking Lady Laura back to the house.  When Mr. Kennedy’s hat had first appeared coming up the walk, Phineas had been ready to proclaim himself prepared for any devotion in the service of Lady Laura.  Indeed, he had begun to reply with criminal tenderness to the indiscreet avowal which Lady Laura had made to him.  But he felt now, after what had just occurred in the husband’s presence, that any show of tenderness,—­of criminal tenderness,—­was impossible.  The absence of all suspicion on the part of Mr. Kennedy had made Phineas feel that he was bound by all social laws to refrain from such tenderness.  Lady Laura began to descend the path before him without a word;—­and went on, and on, as though she would have reached the house without speaking, had he not addressed her.  “Does your head still pain you?” he asked.

“Of course it does.”

“I suppose he is right in saying that you should not be out in the heat.”

“I do not know.  It is not worth while to think about that.  He sends me in, and so of course I must go.  And he tells you to take me, and so of course you must take me.”

“Would you wish that I should let you go alone?”

“Yes, I would.  Only he will be sure to find it out; and you must not tell him that you left me at my request.”

“Do you think that I am afraid of him?” said Phineas.

“Yes;—­I think you are.  I know that I am, and that papa is; and that his mother hardly dares to call her soul her own.  I do not know why you should escape.”