Ethel was waking up to the fact that it would not do for her to remain here, after dark, alone with Nigel. It would not quite do, old friend and playfellow though he was.
"There is poor Tom, you know," said Ethel, the light fading out of her eyes. She had so enjoyed this little bout of unrestrained talk, and now she began to wonder at her own unrestraint.
But Tom's sting was gone. "Poor fellow! Shall we go and have a lesson from him together in Latin terminations?" Nigel asked joyously.
"Is Mr. Browning better to-night?" inquired Ethel, struck with the light-hearted manner.
"No; I'm afraid not. I can never tell you about him now, you are always so busy. Couldn't you sit down for five minutes?"
"I don't think I ought."
Ethel leant against the table, grave again, and a little anxious. Had she gone too far, shown too much pleasure at seeing Nigel? Had she not broken through her own resolution?
If Mr. Carden-Cox knew—Ethel's breath came quickly at the thought! Nigel seemed so pleased to see her again like herself; but, of course, that meant nothing—there was Fulvia in the background, and it would not do for her to study Nigel's feelings. He might wish her to be still on the old frank playmate terms, but it could not be; the time had come for a change, and he must grow used to it. Just for a few minutes everything had felt so natural, so like past days; and now she would have to be careful again, to rein herself in. It was hard, but it had to be done. Whether or no Nigel understood, she must be firm. Ethel did not hear her own sigh.
Nigel stood in front, upright and broad-shouldered, streaked still with half-melted snow; and his dark eyes were bent upon Ethel with their most earnest look. She could not fathom the look, or know why it sent so strange a thrill through her.
"I think we ought to go home," she said.