“Anyhow, I will tell you nothing. I have a right to my secrets as well as you.”
“Just as you like,” he said, bowing coldly. “It is better so, perhaps. But I am keeping you from your walk, Lady Gwendolyn. Let me thank you before I go for the many pleasant hours you have allowed me to pass in your company. The memory of them will always be both a pleasure and a pang.”
He could almost have vowed that he saw two large tears in her dark eyes; nevertheless, she said, carelessly enough to outward appearance:
“It is not very probable that I shall ever cause you another pang, so that you can afford to pardon me. I have quite made up my mind not to return to Teignmouth.”
“I suppose one may expect to hear of your marriage shortly?” he observed, conscious of another pang at this moment—a pang so strong that it whitened his very lips, and made his heart tremble within him.
“My marriage? No, thank you. You are much more likely to hear of my taking the veil.”
“You are the last person I know to do such a thing as that, Lady Gwendolyn. You are too fond of the world to desert it.”
“You think so?” she answered, with a gravity that surprised him. “I suppose the kind of intercourse you and I have had makes it impossible that you should understand me.”
“And you think that I was flirting with you, Lady Gwendolyn?” he said, in a stifled voice.
“Assuredly; and why not?”