"How did you get here—this way?"
"The wall's down."
"Down? Already?"
"A great bit of it between the plantations."
"And you rode through, and got here by chance?"
"I saw you yesterday. And I rode over to see you."
I had now come close to her, and stood looking up into her face.
"I'm a mere vestige," I said.
She made no answer, but remained regarding me steadfastly with a curious air of proprietorship.
"You know I'm the living survivor now of the great smash. I'm rolling and dropping down through all the scaffolding of the social system. . . . It's all a chance whether I roll out free at the bottom, or go down a crack into the darkness out of sight for a year or two."
"The sun," she remarked irrelevantly, "has burnt you. . . . I'm getting down."
She swung herself down into my arms, and stood beside me face to face.
"Where's Cothope?" she asked.
"Gone."
Her eyes flitted to the pavilion and back to me. We stood close together, extraordinarily intimate, and extraordinarily apart.
"I've never seen this cottage of yours," she said, "and I want to."
She flung the bridle of her horse round the verandah post, and I helped her tie it.
"Did you get what you went for to Africa?" she asked.
"No," I said, "I lost my ship."
