“Mr. Chillingly, give your arm to my daughter. You will not now object to join the dancers?”
CHAPTER V.
CECILIA stole a shy glance at Kenelm as the two emerged from the fernery into the open space of the lawn. His countenance pleased her. She thought she discovered much latent gentleness under the cold and mournful gravity of its expression; and, attributing the silence he maintained to some painful sense of an awkward position in the abrupt betrayal of his incognito, sought with womanly tact to dispel his supposed embarrassment.
“You have chosen a delightful mode of seeing the country this lovely summer weather, Mr. Chillingly. I believe such pedestrian exercises are very common with university students during the long vacation.”
“Very common, though they generally wander in packs like wild dogs or Australian dingoes. It is only a tame dog that one finds on the road travelling by himself; and then, unless he behaves very quietly, it is ten to one that he is stoned as a mad dog.”
“But I am afraid, from what I hear, that you have not been travelling very quietly.”
“You are quite right, Miss Travers, and I am a sad dog if not a mad one. But pardon me: we are nearing the marquee; the band is striking up, and, alas! I am not a dancing dog.”
He released Cecilia’s arm, and bowed.
“Let us sit here a while, then,” said she, motioning to a garden-bench. “I have no engagement for the next dance, and, as I am a little tired, I shall be glad of a reprieve.”