Guy makes no reply, but, stepping on to the balcony outside, walks listlessly away, his heart in a tumult of fear and regret, while Miss Beauchamp, calmly, and with a certain triumph, goes on contentedly with her work. A nail in Lilian's coffin has, she hopes, been driven, and sews her hopes into the canvas beneath her hand, as long ago the Parisian women knitted their terrible revenge and cruel longings into their children's socks, whilst all the flower and beauty and chivalry of France fell beneath the fatal guillotine.
Guy, wandering aimlessly, full of dismal thought, follows out mechanically his first idea, and turns in the direction of the garden, the spot so beloved by his false, treacherous little mistress.
In the distance he sees her; she is standing motionless in the centre of a grassplot, while behind her Chesney is busily engaged tying back her yellow hair with a broad piece of black ribbon she has evidently given him for the purpose. He has all her rich tresses gathered together in one, and is lingering palpably over his task. In his coat is placed conspicuously the blue forget-me-not begged of Guy by Lilian only a few minutes ago as though her heart were set upon its possession.
"Coquette," mutters Chetwoode between his teeth.
"Not done yet?" asks the coquette at this moment of her cousin, giving her head a little impatient shake.
"Yes, just done," finishing up in a hurry the somewhat curious bow he is making.
"Well, now run," says Lilian, "and do as I bade you. I shall be here on this spot when you return. You know how I hate waiting: so don't be long,—do you hear?"
"Does that mean you will be impatient to see me again?"
"Of course," laughing. "I shall be dying to see you again, longing, pining for your return, thinking every minute an hour until you come back to me."