She sprang from her seat with a quickness that almost startled him. She had forgotten all that had happened; but now it all returned to her with a bitter pang that could not be controlled.
"Hush, Sir Oswald!" she cried, interrupting him; "it is too late for us to talk about Darrell Court now. Pray do not misunderstand me; I was only expressing my belief."
She bent down to take up her drawing materials.
"I do not misunderstand you, child," he said, sadly. "You love it because it is the home of a race you love, and not for its mere worth in money."
Her dark eyes seemed to flash with fire; the glorious face had never softened so before.
"You speak truly," she said; "that is exactly what I mean."
Then she went away, liking Sir Oswald better than she had ever liked him in her life before. He looked after her half-sadly.
"A glorious girl!" he said to himself; "a true Darrell! I hope I have not made a mistake."
Lady Darrell made no complaint to her husband of Pauline; the girl gave her no tangible cause of complaint. She could not complain to Sir Oswald that Pauline's eyes always rested on her with a scornful glance, half-humorous, half-mocking. She could not complain of that strange power Miss Darrell exercised of making her always "feel so small." She would gladly have made friends with Miss Darrell; she had no idea of keeping up any species of warfare; but Pauline resisted all her advances. Lady Darrell had a strange kind of half-fear, which made her ever anxious to conciliate.
She remarked to herself how firm and steadfast Pauline was; there was no weakness, no cowardice in her character; she was strong, self-reliant; and, discerning that, Lady Darrell asked herself often, "What will Pauline's vengeance be?"