"Yes," she said in a low voice. "No, I won't dance any more. I—I am a little tired to-night and disinclined for dancing."
"All right," he said. "I'm sorry—both that you won't dance and the cause. You have been doing too much to-day—too long a ride, I expect. These hills are rather trying to those who are not used to them. Shall we go and sit in that recess? I'll bring you some wine—"
"No, thanks," she said, quickly; she could not bear him to leave her.
He led her to one of the recesses leading on to the fernery, and found her a seat near a softly plashing fountain. The lights were shaded with rose-coloured silk and threw a soft, warm glow upon her face and snowy neck.
For the hundredth time, as he looked at her, he thought how beautiful she was, and for the hundredth time compared her to Ida, of course to his sweetheart's advantage. She leant back in the luxurious lounge with her eyes bent on her jewelled fan, and seemed lost in thought. Then suddenly she said:
"Do you know how long we have been here, Mr. Orme? It is a tremendous time. I told my father to-night that we must take our departure."
"Oh, no!" he said. "Pray don't think of it—if you care to stay, if you are happy. You would be a very serious loss to us."
"If I care—if I am happy!" She laughed a low, strange laugh and raised her eyes to his for an instant. "Do you think I have not been happy?"
"Oh, I hope so," he said. "My father would be awfully cut up if he thought you had not: if he thought there had been anything to prevent your being happy he would remove it even if it—it were one of those mountains outside," he added, with a laugh.
"You admire your father?" she said. "You—are fond of him?"