They spoke on trivial subjects, until it was time to return to the house. Just as they were entering, Lyle said:
“Look! there is my brother-in-law standing at the gate. Oh, Miss Rothesay, be sure you never tell him of the things we have been talking about.”
“It is not likely I shall ever have the opportunity. Mr. Gwynne seems a very reserved man.”
“He is so; and of these matters he now never speaks at all.”
“Hush! he is here;” and with a feeling of unwonted nervousness, as if she feared he had been aware of how much she had thought and conversed about him, Olive met Harold Gwynne.
“I am afraid I am an intruder, Miss Rothesay,” said the latter, with a half-suspicious glance at the tall, dark figure which stood near her in the moonlight.
“What! did you not know me, brother Harold? How funny!” And he laughed: his laugh was something like Sara's.
It seemed to ring jarringly on Mr. Gwynne's ear. “I was not aware, Miss Rothesay, that you knew my brother-in-law.”
“Oh, Miss Rothesay and I were friends almost ten years ago. She was our neighbour at Oldchurch.”
“Indeed.” And Olive thought she discerned in his face, which she had already begun to read, some slight pain or annoyance. Perhaps it wounded him to know any one who had known Sara. Perhaps—but conjectures were vain.