“True? Is this true?”
“On my honor. Why do you ask? Why should you doubt it?”
“Simply to know how long you could have been here without coming to me.” These words were uttered in a voice slightly tremulous, and full of a tender significance. Trafford's cheeks grew scarlet, and for a moment he seemed unable to reply. At last he said, in a confused way: “I came by the mail-packet, and at once drove out here. I was anxious to see Sir Brook. And you?”
“I came here also to see him.”
“He has been in some trouble lately,” said Trafford, trying to lead the conversation into an indifferent channel. “By some absurd mistake they arrested him as a Celt.”
“How long do you remain here, Lionel?” asked she, totally unmindful of his speech.
“My leave is for a month, but the journey takes off half of it.”
“Am I much changed, Lionel, since you saw me last? You can scarcely know. Come over and sit beside me.”
Trafford drew his chair close to hers. “Well,” said she, pushing back her bonnet, and by the action letting her rich and glossy hair fall in great masses over her back, “you have not answered me? How am I looking?”
“You were always beautiful, and fully as much so now as ever.”