not see, but whose presence was very real to her. The unwelcome conviction grew upon him. Someone, in the world she knew apart from him, accompanied them. A few minutes before she had been wild and romping, playing at 'mushrooms' with laughter and excitement. She loved doing this—whirling round on her toes till her skirts were horizontal, then sinking with them ballooning round her to the ground, the tam-o'shanter pulled down over her entire face so that she looked like a giant toadstool with a crimson top. But now she had turned suddenly grave and silent.
'Uncle!' she exclaimed abruptly, turning sharply to face him, and using the hushed tone that was always prelude to some startling question, 'tell me one thing, please. What would you do if—'
She broke off suddenly and sprang swiftly to one side.
'Mánya! if what?' He did not like the movement; it was so obviously done to avoid something that stood in her way—between them—very close. He almost jumped too. 'I can't tell you anything while you're darting about like a deer-fly. What d'you want to know?' he added with involuntary sharpness.
She stood facing him with her legs astride the path. She stared straight into his eyes. The dusk played tricks with her height, always delusive. It magnified her. She seemed to stand over him, towering up.
'If someone kept walking close beside you under an umbrella,' she whispered earnestly, 'so that the face was hidden and you could never see it—what would you do?'
'Child! But what a question!' The carelessness
