“You are angry? I am making you angry on purpose. Every word I say to you is for an end of my own. Then there was your boy lover. I was afraid of him till I saw him with you. Then I had no fears at all. But I couldn’t stand the thought that you might be still bound in heart to a fellow who had had scruples about you, who cared one iota to know what you had done—when he knew you. Then there was the young poet. Of course he was in love with you, but there wasn’t stuff enough in dream-love for you. I weighed them all in the balance. For you see, I know you.”
“Hardly well enough to say so much,” said Amethyst; but he struck in—
“Ah, wait, you will not be angry with me soon. But it’s time all that was over. Now we have met again, mayn’t we have one of our old discussions about the value of life, and the good things of life? What is the next thing for you now? Are you going to learn Greek, or hospital nursing, or what?”
“I shall learn Greek,” said Amethyst. “I mean to use my brains.”
“And when the Greek is learnt?”
“Then I’ll teach it.”
He smiled, and suddenly changing the conversation entirely, began to talk about a new play.
Amethyst felt a little angry with him, but she was no longer dull, and she wondered much what he would do next.
Restharrow was a house where every one did as they liked, and, in the evening, the large party scattered about among the different rooms. Mr Carisbrooke came up to Amethyst, and said, “Come with me;” and, quite careless as to whether they were noticed or not, he led the way into a little morning-room and shut the door.
Amethyst felt bewildered. The room was full of firelight and red-shaded lamp-light, and Oliver Carisbrooke stood in the warm glow with his deep-set, peculiar eyes fixed full upon her.