“You are wrong to mistrust yourself; but it is what I owe to you and not what I expect from you that I try to express by speaking of you as an angel. I know that you are not an angel to yourself. But you are to me.”
She sat stubbornly silent.
“I will not press you for an answer now. I am content that you know my mind at last. Shall we return together?”
She looked round slowly at the hemlock, and from that to the river. Then she took up her basket, rose, and prepared to go, as if under compulsion.
“Do you want any more hemlock?” he said. “If so, I will pluck some for you.”
“I wish you would let me alone,” she said, with sudden anger. She added, a little ashamed of herself, “I have a headache.”
“I am very sorry,” he said, crestfallen.
“It is only that I do not wish to be spoken to. It hurts my head to listen.”
He meekly took his bicycle from the ditch and wheeled it along beside her to the Beeches without another word. They went in through the conservatory, and parted in the dining-room. Before leaving him she said with some remorse, “I did not mean to be rude, Mr. Erskine.”
He flushed, murmured something, and attempted to kiss her hand. But she snatched it away and went out quickly. He was stung by this repulse, and stood mortifying himself by thinking of it until he was disturbed by the entrance of a maid-servant. Learning from her that Sir Charles was in the billiard room, he joined him there, and asked him carelessly if he had heard the news.