"I never think of my friend, Lord Highcliffe, without recalling those significant lines of William Watson's." He looked at her; and be it said that his eyes were fine and impressive ones when he showed them plainly. "These are the lines:
"'I do not ask to have my fill
Of wine, of love, or fame.
I do not for a little ill
Against the gods exclaim.
"'One boon of fortune I implore,
With one petition kneel:
At least caress me not before
Thou break me on thy wheel!'"
Her lip quivered and her long lashes concealed her eyes.
"They are fine lines," she said.
"They fit my friend Lord Highcliffe's case to a T. He was for a time the spoiled darling of fortune; she caressed him as she caresses few men—and now she is breaking him on her wheel; and the caresses, of course, make the breaking all the harder to bear. He writes most interesting letters—I don't know whether you care about farming and cattle-raising and that kind of thing; for my own part I am sublimely ignorant of such matters. I can lay my hand upon my heart and say I know a cow from a horse, but nothing shall induce me to go further. If you are interested, I would venture to offer to show you one of his letters; there is nothing in them of a private character."
Her heart beat still more quickly; he saw the eager light flash in her eyes; and his hand went to his breast coat-pocket; then he said, blandly:
"I will bring one next time we meet. Are you going—where are you going to-morrow, Miss Heron? I, too, shall be going there probably?"
She put her hand to her lips with a little nervous gesture: she was disappointed, she thought he was going to show her a letter, then and there.
"I am going to Lady Fitzharford's to-morrow afternoon to try over some music with her," she said, hesitatingly.