"Oh, Randolph, I am so horrified! What an awful blow for you!"
He winced as if he had been struck.
"Yes; it has hit me hard; but spare me any words of sympathy, or I shall flee back to town."
"Well, I always think that when a girl behaves like that it is a merciful escape. I will not speak of it again. You can trust me."
By neither word nor look did Randolph Neville show to the world at large what he felt at this juncture of his life. But cynicism and bitterness tinged his speech; he had been an easy-tempered, optimistic man; now he began to develop critical faculties, and certain hard lines imprinted themselves about his lips. A week of boating with his cousin's guests was enough for him.
"I am going away," he informed her one morning when she was walking round her well-ordered garden with him and asking his advice about certain alterations she wished to make in the autumn.
"Not back to town? It is August; not a soul will be there."
"If I thought that, I would return to-morrow. I want more solitude—"
"Than I can give you here? Oh, I quite understand, but I don't believe it will be good for you. What wilds will hold you?"
"I'm going to look up Monica Pembroke."