So much for Harvey's train of thought as the trio walked the terrace side by side. Hermione's ran on a parallel line, being chiefly occupied with him. She was not grieved after the fashion of Marjory Fitzalan, for Hermione's was not, like Marjory's, a hero-worshipping nature. If Hermione worshipped any human being at all, it was all unconsciously her most sweet and attractive self. But then, of course, it was unconsciously. Other people she looked upon with a calm and gentle kindness, ready to administer praise, blame, or advice, as might be called for. Why not? Hermione was accustomed to find her praise welcomed, her blame submitted to, her advice followed. Almost everybody in her little world looked up to her, as Marjory had said.
It was a somewhat unwonted position for a girl of her age, enhanced by her extreme prettiness—not altogether a safe or wholesome position.
Mr. Dalrymple's train of thought was less definite than that of either of his companions. For he was grieving still over his shattered dream, grieving yet more over his unconquered wilfulness, and struggling against an unwonted sense of inertia and weariness. He wished to be kind and chatty with his great-nephew, but it was not easy.
[CHAPTER VI.]
IVY-LEAVES.
This was Saturday. Harvey had purposed remaining until Monday, then spending one night in London, and starting for Paris next day. He had told his young wife as much, almost promising not to be longer away. Happily the promise had been modified by a condition— "if I can possibly help it." He began to see that he hardly would be able to help it.
"I do not think I can go into business matters to-night. My head is so heavy still—there must be thunder brewing," Mr. Dalrymple said after dinner. "I have always been sensitive to thunder. We must have our talk on Monday. You will stay with us till the middle of the week, at all events."
Harvey demurred, and Hermione's eyes rested upon him.
"After eight years!" she said.
"Not all brides would consent to even so much in the first month."