I considered this ungarnished manner of asking questions impertinent, and, trying to look lofty, made an attempt to pass at the side.
The little girl, with a quick, cork-like movement, was there before me.
“Who are you?” she repeated, her expression friendly but firm. “Oh, I—I’m a pilgrim,” I said in desperation.
“A pilgrim!” echoed the little girl. She seemed struck, and while she was struck I slipped past her and began to walk quickly towards the door in the wall. “A pilgrim!” said the little girl, again, keeping close beside me, and looking me up and down attentively. “I don’t like pilgrims. Aren’t they people who are always walking about, and have things the matter with their feet? Have you got anything the matter with your feet?”
“Certainly not,” I replied indignantly, walking still faster.
“And they never wash, Miss Robinson says. You don’t either, do you?”
“Not wash? Oh, I’m afraid you are a very badly brought-up little girl—oh, leave me alone—I must run—”
“So must I,” said the little girl, cheerfully, “for Miss Robinson must be close behind us. She nearly had me just before I found you.” And she started running by my side.
The thought of Miss Robinson close behind us gave wings to my feet, and, casting my dignity, of which, indeed, there was but little left, to the winds, I fairly flew down the path. The little girl was not to be outrun, and though she panted and turned weird colours, kept by my side and even talked. Oh, I was tired, tired in body and mind, tired by the different shocks I had received, tired by the journey, tired by the want of food; and here I was being forced to run because this very naughty little girl chose to hide instead of going in to her lessons.
“I say—this is jolly—” she jerked out.
“But why need we run to the same place?” I breathlessly asked, in the vain hope of getting rid of her.
“Oh, yes—that’s just—the fun. We’d get on—together—you and I—”
“No, no,” said I, decided on this point, bewildered though I was.
“I can’t stand washing—either—it’s awful—in winter—and makes one have—chaps.”
“But I don’t mind it in the least,” I protested faintly, not having any energy left.
“Oh, I say!” said the little girl, looking at my face, and making the sound known as a guffaw. The familiarity of this little girl was wholly revolting.
We had got safely through the door, round the corner past the radishes, and were in the shrubbery. I knew from experience how easy it was to hide in the tangle of little paths, and stopped a moment to look round and listen. The little girl opened her mouth to speak. With great presence of mind I instantly put my muff in front of it and held it there tight, while I listened. Dead silence, except for the laboured breathing and struggles of the little girl.
“I don’t hear a sound,” I whispered, letting her go again. “Now what did you want to say?” I added, eyeing her severely.
“I wanted to say,” she panted, “that it’s no good pretending you wash with a nose like that.”
“A nose like that! A nose like what?” I exclaimed, greatly offended; and though I put up my hand and very tenderly and carefully felt it, I could find no difference in it. “I am afraid poor Miss Robinson must have a wretched life,” I said, in tones of deep disgust.
The little girl smiled fatuously, as though I were paying her compliments. “It’s all green and brown,” she said, pointing. “Is it always like that?”
Then I remembered the wet fir tree near the gate, and the enraptured kiss it had received, and blushed.
“Won’t it come off?” persisted the little girl.
“Of course it will come off,” I answered, frowning.
“Why don’t you rub it off?”
Then I remembered the throwing away of the handkerchief, and blushed again.
“Please lend me your handkerchief,” I said humbly, “I—I have lost mine.”
There was a great fumbling in six different pockets, and then a handkerchief that made me young again merely to look at it was produced. I took it thankfully and rubbed with energy, the little girl, intensely interested, watching the operation and giving me advice. “There—it’s all right now—a little more on the right—there—now it’s all off.”
“Are you sure? No green left?” I anxiously asked.
“No, it’s red all over now,” she replied cheerfully. “Let me get home,” thought I, very much upset by this information, “let me get home to my dear, uncritical, admiring babies, who accept my nose as an example of what a nose should be, and whatever its colour think it beautiful.” And thrusting the handkerchief back into the little girl’s hands, I hurried away down the path. She packed it away hastily, but it took some seconds for it was of the size of a small sheet, and then came running after me. “Where are you going?” she asked surprised, as I turned down the path leading to the gate.
“Through this gate,” I replied with decision.
“But you mustn’t—we’re not allowed to go through there—”
So strong was the force of old habits in that place that at the words not allowed my hand dropped of itself from the latch; and at that instant a voice calling quite close to us through the mist struck me rigid.
“Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” called the voice, “Come in at once to your lessons—Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”
“It’s Miss Robinson,” whispered the little girl, twinkling with excitement; then, catching sight of my face, she said once more with eager insistence, “Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m a ghost!” I cried with conviction, pressing my hands to my forehead and looking round fearfully.
“Pooh,” said the little girl.
It was the last remark I heard her make, for there was a creaking of approaching boots in the bushes, and seized by a frightful panic I pulled the gate open with one desperate pull, flung it to behind
