He answered with a little foolish shamefaced snigger; then turned and stole away a-tiptoe, as if he feared to be detected, while she watched his departure with a twitch of scorn upon her lips. The Duke, with an amused smile on his, regarded her furtively, her rigid attitude, the flushed curve of her cheek, which alone of her face was visible as she stood with her back to him. But much expression can be conveyed in a curve.
“No friend of yours, my lady?” he asked softly.
“No,” she said, and, lowering her head, began plucking at her handkerchief without turning to him.
“Of your husband’s, perhaps?” he asked, in the same tone.
“Of any man’s,” she answered.
“O!” He rose and, just glancing through the window at the pretty figure, now joined in company with that of the young nobleman, took a step or two which brought him within close range of the averted face. “Is that so?” he said. “And she lies in this house?”
She did not answer; and, venturing quite gently to capture her reluctant fingers, he led her by them to the window. The couple outside were already, it appeared, on friendly terms. They laughed and chatted together, making a sport of the flower-choosing, in which, with all pretty coquetries, the lady would defer to her companion, plucking this bloom and that, and holding it to his button nose, and throwing the thing away in a pretended pet if he shook his head to it. The Duke stood some moments regarding the scene.
“Why, young, but practised,” he said presently. “He has met her before?”
“Never, to my knowledge.”
She spoke low, trembling a little now—perhaps from that sudden chill.