“Er—Dorrien—if you don’t mind, I think we—er—I—will have half an hour more of it,” stammered Marsland. “Miss Sophie says she’d rather walk back—er—and I’ll see her safe home.”
“All right, Marsland,” replied his host. “Olive dear, do you mind driving back without me? You can take Margaret in the waggonette.” He had taken off his skates, and was standing with one foot on the step of the vehicle, wherein sat his wife, wrapped in furs, and looking very sweet in the crisp, frosty air. “Your father and I are going to walk. Oh, and by the way, he says they all can go straight back with us to dinner, so you’d better go on ahead and arrange accordingly.”
“Very well, dear. But I quite envy you your lovely walk.”
“Not a few quite envy me my lovely something else,” he replied meaningly.
“What? Oh, you dear old goose!” she laughed, blushing at the delicate compliment, her dark eyes flashing at him a bright glance of affection. “Now go and find Margaret—there she is, just coming off the ice—and then we’ll go.”
“Well, Roland, my boy, this sort of thing makes a man feel young again,” said the rector, as they began to step cut briskly on their homeward way. The sun had gone down, and the bare trees stood against the cloudless sky in delicate tracery, as in a steel engraving. The dead leaves crackled underfoot, and behind them the ring of the skates on the ice, and the voices and laughter of the skaters grew fainter and fainter.
“I suppose it does,” answered the other shortly, with a glance around as if to make sure that no one was within earshot. Then after a pause—
“Look. From where we now stand, it will take us the best part of an hour to walk home—I can call it home now—and the Hall is nearly in the centre of the estate. Well, all this I gave up of my own free will—flung it away with both hands. For what? For love. But even that which I had bought at the price of my birthright, was snatched from me not many hours after its purchase, for the very day after I had done this I learned that I was a ruined man.”
“My dear boy, I can never blame myself enough for my short-sightedness in that wretched business,” cried the old man in a distressed voice, letting his hand fall affectionately on the other’s shoulder.
“There is no question of blame in the matter,” went on Roland, speaking quickly and decisively. “And now, do you ever regret that things turned out as they did? Have you ever had during this year and a half which has passed since you gave Olive to me—any reason for misgivings as to her future?”