When the last sound of her footsteps has disappeared, Guy rouses himself as if from a hateful dream, and presses his hand to his forehead. Stooping, he picks up the disdained handkerchief, that lies mournfully in the corner, thrusts it into his bosom, and turning away toward his own quarters, is seen no more that night.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"The best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy."—Burns.
All next day Lilian treats him as though to her eyes he is invisible. She bestows upon him none of the usual courtesies of life; she takes no "good-morrow," nor gives one. She is singularly deaf when he speaks; except when common etiquette compels her to return an answer to one or other of his speeches, she is dumb to him, or, when thus compelled, makes an answer in her iciest tones.
At five o'clock they all start for the Grange, Mrs. Boileau being one of those unpleasant people who think they can never see enough of their guests, or that their guests can never see enough of them,—I am not sure which,—and who consequently has asked them to come early, to inspect her gardens and walk through her grounds before dinner.
As the grounds are well worth seeing, and the evening is charming for strolling, this is about the pleasantest part of the entertainment. At least so thinks Lilian, who (seeing Guy's evident depression) is in radiant spirits. So does Archibald, who follows her as her shadow. They are both delighted at everything about the Grange, and wander hither and thither, looking and admiring as they go.