Massingbred fixed his eyes upon her keenly as she uttered the words; few and simple as they were, they seemed to reveal to him something of the nature of her who spoke them. A mere exclamation—a syllable—will sometimes convey “whole worlds of secret thought and feeling,” and it was evidently thus that Massingbred interpreted this brief expression. “There was nothing of scorn in that pity,” thought he. “I wish she had uttered even one word more! She is a strange creature!”
And it was thus speaking to himself that he walked along at her side.
“This wild and desolate scene is not very like that of which we talked the other night,—when first we met,—Miss Henderson.”
“You forget that we never met,” said she, calmly.
“True, and yet there was a link between us even in those few flowers thrown at random.”
“Don't be romantic, Mr. Massingbred; do not, I pray you,” said she, smiling faintly. “You know it's not your style, while it would be utterly thrown away upon me, I am aware that fine gentlemen of your stamp deem this the fitting tone to assume towards 'the governess;' but I 'm really unworthy of it.”
“What a strange girl you are!” said he, half thinking aloud.
“On the contrary, how very commonplace!” said she, hastily.
“Do you like this country?” asked Massingbred, with an imitation of her own abrupt manner.
“No,” said she, shortly.