"Thyrza!" I said, for her back was turned.
She glanced round, and sprang up, freezing into her usual unapproachable stiffness.
"How do you do?" Sir Keith said, giving her his ungloved hand, or rather taking the rigid member which she poked half-way towards him. "I hope you are all well at home. Pleasant day, is it not?"
He looked towards me again, and Thyrza ungraciously mumbled something about—"Miss Con—at least, Miss Conway!"—which was doubtless intended for an introduction.
Sir Keith's hat was lifted afresh, with his air of marked and simple courtesy,—simple, because so absolutely natural. I have never seen a more thoroughly high-bred manner.
"I must supply Thyrza's omission," he said, smiling. "My name is Denham, and we are near neighbours. We have met before: and the name of Miss Conway is by no means unknown to me, as Mrs. Romilly's friend."
"And governess," I said. I could not help noticing the flash of his eyes, curiously soft and gentle eyes for a man. It meant approval, certainly, and something else beyond approval which I could not fathom. One never loses in the end by claiming no more than one's rightful position. It is rather absurd of me to care what Sir Keith does or does not think about the matter. But I should say that he is a man whose good opinion one could hardly help valuing.
"I hope you caught your train that day?" he said, after a few remarks had passed between us.
"Thanks to you, I did," was my answer.
"Are you going home now? My way is identical with yours, so far as the end of the next lane," he said, and we walked side by side, Thyrza marching solemnly, a yard off, declining to take any share in the talk.