It must be admitted that Ayre's dealings with her were wanting in candor. Under the guise of family friendship, he led her on to open her mind to him. He extracted from her detailed accounts of long excursions into the outskirts of the forest, of numberless walks in the shady paths, of an expedition to the races (where perfect solitude can always be obtained), and of many other diversions which Kate and Haddington had enjoyed together, while she was left to knit "clouds" and chew reflections in the Kurhaus garden. All this, Ayre recognized, with lively but suppressed satisfaction, was not as it should be.
"I have spoken to Kate," she concluded, "but she takes no notice; will you do me a service?"
"Of course," said Ayre; "anything I can."
"Will you speak to Mr. Haddington?"
This by no means suited Ayre's book. Moreover, it would very likely expose him to a snub, and he had no fancy for being snubbed by a man like Haddington.
"I can hardly do that. I have no position. I'm not her father, or uncle, or anything of that sort."
"You might influence him."
"No, he'd tell me to mind my own business. To speak plainly, my dear lady, it isn't as if Kate couldn't take care of herself. She could stop his attentions to-morrow if she liked. Isn't it so?"
Mrs. Welman sadly admitted it was.
"The only thing I can do is to keep an eye on them, and act as I think best; that I will gladly do."