Mostyn took the girl's hand in his and held it, perhaps a little longer than he needed. "You're not commonplace," he faltered awkwardly; "you're anything but that. You're more like a sprite or a pixie."
It was curious how she attracted him, and yet he was quite sure she was mocking him all the time, laughing at him in her heart. He would have liked to have refused her hand, to have spoken formally, to have shown her that he was not the sort of man to be made mock of: and yet all these impulses were put aside by that extraordinary fascination which she had over him, and for which he could not account, the fascination which had made him think of her so often during the last week, and which had brought her Christian name to his lips in the first moment of surprise. He was sure that he hated her—and yet he had held her hand longer than he need have done, and perhaps with firmer grip than was necessary.
The worst of it was that Rada seemed to understand this, to have the knowledge of her power: she would only laugh at him all the more.
"Call me a mischievous imp," she retorted, brushing back the recalcitrant curl, "if that's what you mean. Don't be shy, Mr. Clithero. After that I'll explain why I'm here, and then go."
Of course she must go. What else could be suggested? That is what Mostyn thought, yet when he came to speak he gave expression to a very different sentiment. "I—I'm sure I don't know why you are here, Miss Armitage," he faltered; "but if you really meant to stay—well, I can clear out, you know, for to-night anyway. I believe there's an inn at Partinborough."
She laughed musically. "Well, we'll see. But let's go into the drawing-room to talk: it's more cosy there, and I can make myself comfortable in my favourite chair. This hall's always full of shadows, and we look like a pair of ghosts. Then there are the roses in the drawing-room that I put there myself this morning." She spoke as though she were the hostess, and with complete self-possession. It was she who led the way and Mostyn who followed, still bewildered, and at war with himself.
So there was no doubt about it now; it was Rada who had filled those vases with flowers, and who had evidently occupied the room which he had selected for his own. But why on earth had Willis not given some explanation?
They entered the drawing-room, and Rada installed herself in one of the comfortable chintz-covered arm chairs. She was seated with her back to the unshuttered window, through which the moon, fully risen by now, could be seen riding in a cloudless and star-sprinkled sky. At that moment a rumble of carriage wheels made itself heard along the drive.
"What's that?" queried Rada, looking round sharply.
"It's the Willis's driving back to their cottage," said Mostyn shortly. "Their son met with an accident, and they had to bring him home. Since you seem to be a regular visitor here, Miss Armitage, I cannot understand why Willis said nothing to me about you." As he spoke the dog-cart with its three occupants passed the window and disappeared, the noise of wheels gradually dying away in the distance.