“You will see from all this insistance, my dear Miss Luttrell, how eager I am to dissuade you from a step which, if taken, will be the great disaster of your whole life. Remember that you are about to act not alone for the present, but for the events and contingencies which are to occur years hence.”
The letter wound up with many assurances of esteem, and most cordial offers of every service in the writer’s power. A postscript added, “On reconsideration, I see that you must absolutely speak to Mr. Luttrell about your project, since in my notes I find that he positively declines to accept your gift of the Arran estate except in exchange for the larger property in Roscommon. In all my varied experiences, two such clients as yourself and your cousin have never occurred to me.”
It was as he was finishing the reading of this letter for the third time, that Harry Luttrell felt a hand laid gently on his shoulder. He turned, and saw Kate standing behind him. Her cheek was flushed with the fresh glow of exercise, and her hair, partly disordered, fell in heavy masses beneath her bonnet on her neck and shoulders, while her full lustrous eyes shone with a dazzling brilliancy. It was one of those moments in which every trait that formed her beauty had attained its most perfect development. Harry stared at her with a wondering admiration.
“Well, Sir?” cried she, as if asking what his look implied—“well, Sir?” But, unable to maintain the cool indifference she had attempted, and feeling that her cheek was growing hot and red, she added, quickly, “What have you done?—have you seen him?—has he been here?” He stared on without a word, his eager eyes seeming to drink in delight without slaking, till she turned away abashed and half vexed. “I don’t suppose you heard my question,” said she, curtly.
“Of course I heard it, but it was of what I saw I was thinking, not of what I heard.”
“Which, after all, was not quite polite, Harry.”
“Politeness was not much in my thoughts either,” said he. “I couldn’t believe any one could be so beautiful.”
“What a nice rough compliment, what a dear piece of savage flattery! What would you say, Sir, if you had seen me, in my days of finery, decked out in lace and jewels, Harry? And, dear me, don’t they make a wondrous difference! I used to come down to dinner at Dalradern at times powdered, or with my hair in short curls, à la Sévigné, and my costume all to suit; and you should have seen the worshipful homage of old Sir Within, as he presented me with my bouquet, and kissed the extreme tips of my fingers. Oh dear, what a delightful dream it was, all of it!”
“What a coquette you must be! What a coquette you are!” muttered he, savagely.
“Of course I am, Harry. Do you think I would deny it? Coquetry is the desire to please, as a means of self-gratification. I accept the imputation.”