.''
''Do I not do those things?''
''You do—then spoil them, with a grimace or a flinch. Look at you now. Lean into my arm, damn you. Will it kill you, to feel my hand upon yours?—I am sorry'' I have grown stiff at his words. ''I am sorry, Maud.''
''Let go of my arm,'' I say.
We go further, side by side but in silence. Sue plods behind—I hear her breaths, like sighs. Richard throws down the butt of his cigarette, tears up a switch of grass and begins to lash at his boots. ''How filthy red this earth is!'' he says. ''But, what a treat for little Charles . . .'' He smiles to himself. Then his foot turns up a flint and he almost stumbles. That makes him curse. He rights himself, and looks me over. ''I see you walk more nimbly. You like it, hmm? You may walk in London like this, you know. On the parks and heaths. Did you know? Or else, you may choose not to walk, ever again— you may rent carriages, chairs, men to drive and carry you about—''
''I know what I may do.''
''Do you? Truly?'' He puts the stem of grass to his mouth and grows thoughtful. ''I wonder. You are afraid, I think. Of what? Being alone? Is it that? You need never fear solitude, Maud, while you are rich.''
''You think I feax solitude?'' I say. We are close to the wall of my uncle''s park. It is high, grey, dry as powder. ''You think I fear that? I fear nothing, nothing.''
He casts the grass aside, takes up my arm. ''Why, then,'' he says, ''do you keep us here, in such dreadful suspense?''