"Oh, Rose!" came in distressed tones from Mary; but Imogen did not flinch from her serenity.
Outside on the veranda, where they all wandered after breakfast, her moment came at last. Jack had walked away with Mary; Miss Bocock, with a newspaper, stood in the shade at a little distance. Rose and Eddy were wandering among the flowers.
Imogen knew, as she found herself alone with Sir Basil, that the impulse that rose in her was the crude one of simply snatching. She controlled its demonstration so that only a certain breathlessness was in her voice, a certain brilliancy in her eye, as she said to him, rapidly:—
"He will never let you see me! Never!"
"He? Who?—What do you mean?" Sir Basil, startled, stared at her.
"Jack! Jack! Haven't you noticed?"
"Oh, I see. Yes, I see." His glance became illuminated. In a voice as low as her own he asked: "What does it mean?—I never can get a word with you. He's always there. He's very devoted to you, I know; but, I supposed that—well, that his chance was over."
His hesitation, the appeal of his glance, were lightning-flashes of assurance for Imogen, opening her path for her.
"It is over;—it is over;—but it's false that he is devoted to me," she whispered. "He hates me. He is my enemy."
"Oh, I say!" gasped Sir Basil.