“Nothing,” said Sir Ronald, “would give me more pleasure.”
So they passed out of the long drawing-room windows and went through the beautiful grove of flowering chestnuts that led to the garden. The sun was shining so brightly and the birds singing, a thousand flowers were in bloom, a lark sang overhead. Sir Ronald’s heart beat high with happiness and expectation.
Suddenly he heard a clear, sweet voice say:
“You are mistaken, Clarice; I will see what the marguerite says—He loves me, he loves me not. There, you see, he loves me not; if he did, it would be utterly useless.”
Another voice interposed: “You are always willful, Hermione; I tell you Kenelm Eyrle does.”
But here Lady Lorriston interposed.
“This is not fair,” she said, “we can hear them, they cannot see us, and we shall hear all their secrets.”
Sir Ronald looked round and saw a thicket of roses, behind which was a summer-house of green trellis work. The sun shone full upon it and upon the loveliest picture that poet or painter ever dreamed.
Two young girls sat there; one was bending forward with an anxious expression on her face; the other, with a smile, held the ruined marguerite in her hand.
Both had fair hair, both were fair of face, and yet there was a wonderful difference between them. Clarice Severn had a proud, passionate beauty all her own. Lady Hermione’s face was arch, piquant, spiritual, and everything else, by turns. They both started when Lady Lorriston and Sir Ronald entered the arbor. Clarice Severn’s face flushed hotly, then grew pale. Lady Hermione looked very serious for one moment, then she held out her hand.