“What a selfish brute I have been!” muttered the earl to himself. “Poor child—poor Enid! Thank you, Miss Daw,” he added, quickly. “I will speak to her at once, and make arrangements to start whenever she likes. But you—you do not object to leave London?”
“I?” questioned the girl. “No, Lord Court, I have no objection; it matters little to me where I am.”
He cast a quick, earnest glance at her.
“You are young to say that.”
Margery flushed; she had spoken unreflectingly, and she regretted the words as soon as they were uttered.
“And wrong,” she said, with forced lightness. “I shall enjoy the change; and anything that makes Lady Enid happy is a great pleasure to me.”
Lord Court was silent, but he read her assumed manner rightly. He knew Margery’s history well; still, he felt instinctively it was not her orphan state alone that had caused such a remark.
Margery was unaware of his covert glances; she picked two or three leaves from the trees as she passed and arranged them in a cluster with an artistic touch.
“You are an artist, Miss Daw,” the earl observed, as they approached the gates.
“I paint a little, but only flowers,” she returned.