“What, ’tis you, cousin Ellinor!” He took her hand and ceremoniously kissed it.
There was a tone of artificiality about his words. This perfunctory touch of his lips on her hand, this formal bow, all these things belonged to that past of the lord of Bindon, when society knew and petted him; and in that past Ellinor felt with fresh acuteness that she had no part. She drew her hand away.
“I hope,” she said, “the arrangements may be to your liking.”
He glanced at her as if puzzled; then his eye travelled over her figure—an exquisite model of neatness she always was, but in this, her working gown, no more fashionably clad than dairy Moll or Sue. He took up a fold of her sleeve between his first and second finger.
“My sister used to be a very fine lady,” said he gently.
“And I am none,” cried Ellinor, flushing. Then, gathering the roses into her arms and moving away: “But it matters the less,” she added over her shoulder, “as Lady Lochore and I are not likely to come much across each other.”
But David, this new David, a painful enigma to her, touched her detainingly on the shoulder; and in his touch was authority.
“On the contrary,” said he, “I beg you will see much of my sister. Dispenser as you are of my hospitality, you must needs see much of her.”
The flush had faded. Proud and pale she looked at him long, but his face was as a sealed page to her. What was this turn of fortune’s wheel bringing, glory or abasement?
“I must keep my place,” insisted Ellinor.