“No, it isn’t,” said Florella, beginning to get up. “You’re simply flirting, and talking fine about it. But, I don’t think Godfrey Waynflete is flirting, and you may find that the situation grows.”
“Well! I’ll see if I can grow up to it,” said Constancy. “But you know, in these days a girl like me is much more likely to flirt too little than too much.”
Godfrey appeared at the carriage door as they drove up to the Mill House, full of hearty greetings, big, bright and boyish as ever, but with a certain glow in face and manner which was unmistakable as Constancy sprang out, and lifting Rawdie, kissed him between his eyes.
Guy stood behind, looking on with repressed amusement, for he had not yet perceived that it was a “big situation.” He acted host, and showman to the mill. He was pale, but so self-contained and like himself that Cuthbert could have thought the agitated confidence of the night before had been a dream. But Florella felt quite sure of her surmise regarding him, though he said no word to recall it to her.
Constancy had no intention but of spending another pleasant day in studying the “other side of life,” and in teasing her companions; but she did not know with whom she had to deal. If Godfrey had been either old enough to understand her, or timid enough to hesitate and lose his chance, she might have appeared to “manage the situation.” But he began the day with a definite purpose, and laid his plans to suit it. The wet weather was much against him, as he could not offer himself to her, either when walking round the mill, or when sitting in the drawing-room, with Cousin Susan acting hostess. He did not, however, mean to be baffled, and while the whole party were listening to Guy’s explanation of the looms, as well as the noise they made permitted, he said to her, with decision—
“I want you to come and see this,” and as she complied, he led her quickly out of the long, many-windowed room, where the hands were working, into another where the great bales of wool were stored ready for use.
The windows were wide open, with the wet air blowing through, there was a strong smell of oily wool; but Godfrey, with a soft, persistent step, led her round the piled-up bales, into a little open space between them. The window looked across miles of misty, smoky country, and the ceaseless roar of the machinery was softened by distance, so that they could hear themselves speak.
“I don’t see anything to look at here,” said Constancy, “and I want to understand how the weaving is done.”
“There is nothing to see,” said Godfrey. “I brought you here on purpose to tell you something. I—I love you. I mean to work with all there is of me to be worthy of you. I’ve only that one object in life, and I shall never have another. I—I’ve thought you liked me a little. You do—Constancy, don’t you? You will, won’t you? You know that I care for nothing else in the world but you.”
He came close to her, taking her hands and looking down at her, with eyes to which his eagerness lent a sort of fierce determination.