“I don’t pretend to be a good man, Heaven knows! but I’m a poor lonely devil living quite by myself, and your husband, with all that the world can give in the way of happiness, grudges me the brief pleasure of talking for half an hour with a good woman. That’s not the way to make me a better man, Mrs. Weston, and God knows I need all the help I can get.”
“I’m so sorry,” faltered Olive in ready sympathy, and the tears welled up into her tender black eyes.
“You sweet pitying angel,” said Mr. Cotterell, coming nearer and speaking very gently. “Your influence would save me if anything could.”
“Oh, you mustn’t talk like that,” said Olive, with a catch in her voice. “And you will be a good man, won’t you?”
He bent his handsome face low, and taking her hand implanted a kiss upon it with a grace that might have charmed a duchess.
“A woman can make or mar a man’s life,” said he. “Happy are they who draw the prizes. Goodbye!”
He sprang upon his horse and galloped away. Olive stood watching him, her eyes swimming in tears, she scarcely knew why, only he seemed so sad and so handsome. Ezra was unkind to say she must never see him any more and try to make his life less sad and wicked, and she was so sorry to think that she would never have any more talks with him.
At this moment a low growl from Diana made Olive turn round to encounter the clear cool gaze of Madame Morozoff-Smith.
“I followed you down here,” she said. “Napoleon Pompey told me that you were most likely gone to the spring.”
“Have you been here long?” asked Olive, blushing in her surprise and confusion. “I only came for a pail of fresh water.”