"In anger or otherwise, you are always delightful," said Eugene politely.
"I accept that as a diplomatic advance—not in its literal sense. After all, I must be nice to you. You're all alone this morning."
"Lady Claudia," said he gravely, "either you mean something or you do not. If the one—"
"Be quiet this moment!" she said, laughing.
He obeyed and lay back in his low chair with a sigh of content.
"Yes; never mind Stafford and never mind Kate. Why should we? They're not here."
"My silence is not to be taken for consent," said Claudia, "only it's too fine a day to spend in trying to improve you or, indeed, anybody else. But I shall not forget any of my friends."
Now up to this point Eugene had behaved tolerably well. It is, however, a dangerous thing to set yourself deliberately to study a lady's attractions. Like all other one-sided views of a subject, it is apt to carry you too far. The sun and the wind were playing about in Claudia's hair, her eyes were full of light, and her whole air, in spite of a genuine effort after demureness, conveyed to any self-respecting man an irresistible challenge to make himself agreeable if he could. Eugene's notions of making himself agreeable were, as may have been gathered, liberal; they certainly included more than can be considered strictly incumbent on young men in society. And, besides being polite, Eugene was also curious. It is one thing to silently suffer under a passion which a sense of duty forbids; such a position has its pleasures. The situation is altered when the idea dawns upon you that there is no reciprocity of graceful suffering; that, in fact, the lady may prefer somebody else. Eugene wanted to know where he stood.
"Shall you be sorry to leave here?" he asked.
"My feelings will be mixed. You see, Rickmansworth has actually consented to take me with him to his moor, and that will be great fun."