"You've seen him?" eagerly questioned Norah; and the glimpse—that tantalizing glimpse—on Sandy Nab was confessed to.
The Marchesa sprang up, clenching her fist. "Norah, I should like to have that man at my feet, and then to trample on him! Oh, it's not only the path! I believe he's laughing at me all the time!"
"He's never seen you. Perhaps if he did he wouldn't laugh. And perhaps you wouldn't trample on him either."
"Ah, but I would!" She tossed her head impatiently. "Well, if you want to meet him. I expect you can do it—on my path to-morrow!"
This talk left the Marchesa vaguely vexed. Her feeling could not be called jealousy; nothing can hardly be jealous of nothing, and even as her acquaintance with Lynborough amounted to nothing, Lady Norah's also was represented by a cipher. But why should Norah want to know him? It was the Marchesa's path—by consequence it was the Marchesa's quarrel. Where did Norah stand in the matter? The Marchesa had perhaps been constructing a little drama. Norah took leave to introduce a new character!
And not Norah alone, as it appeared at dinner. Little Violet Dufaure, whose appealing ways were notoriously successful with the emotionally weaker sex, took her seat at table with a demurely triumphant air. Captain Irons reproached her, with polite gallantry, for having deserted the croquet lawn after tea.
"Oh, I went for a walk to Fillby—through Scarsmoor, you know."
"Through Scarsmoor, Violet?" The Marchesa sounded rather startled again.
"It's a public road, you know, Helena. Isn't it, Mr. Stillford?"
Stillford admitted that it was. "All the same, perhaps the less we go there at the present moment——"