But my pony had retreated beyond the crowd, and could not be seen. This increased my distress. I sat down upon a stone, and looking at the exhausted stag, began to think myself the most miserable object of the two.
I heard a buzz of voices around me, and could distinguish the words, “Who is it? She is strange to every one here. Where can the picturesque creature have sprung from?”
That moment a pang shot through my heart. Who indeed was I? How came I there? By a gross act of disobedience to my best friend? I felt that my face was bathed with blushes and with tears; for the first time in my life I was ashamed of myself.
A lady rode close up to me, so close that her skirts swept my shoulder.
“Whose little girl are you?” she said. “You are by far too young for a scene like this.”
I looked up and knew the face. It was Lady Catherine Irving, a little more spare, and with a host of fine wrinkles accumulated on her haughty face, but with the same cold, white complexion; the same self-satisfied look.
“Ah, you seem to know me,” she said, settling her beaver hat with one hand. “Now tell me your name; don’t be afraid.”
“I am not afraid, not in the least,” I answered. “Why should I be?”
“True enough; what a bright little wood-nymph it is,” she continued, smiling back upon two scarlet clad gentlemen behind her. “I suppose there really is nothing superlatively frightful about me—ha!”
“Something superlatively the reverse,” answered the gentleman thus challenged.