"No doubt. I dare say you have met only angels. I am not one, I rejoice to say. Florence is, you know; and one piece of perfection should be enough in any household."
Silence again. Not a sound upon the night-air but the clatter of the horse's feet as he covers bravely the crisp dry road, and the rushing of the wind. It is a cold wind, sharp and wintry. It whistles past them, now they have gained the side of the bare moor, with cruel keenness, cutting uncivilly the tops of their ears, and making them sink their necks lower in their coverings.
Miss Chesney's small hands lie naked upon the rug. Even in the indistinct light he knows that they are shivering and almost blue.
"Where are your gloves?" he asks, when he can bear the enforced stillness no longer.
"I forgot them at Mabel's."
Impulsively he lays his own bare hand upon hers, and finds it chilled, nearly freezing.
"Keep your hands inside the rug," he says, angrily, though there is a strong current of pain underlying the anger, "and put this shawl on you directly."
"I will not," says Lilian, though in truth she is dying for it.
"You shall," returns Chetwoode, quietly, in a tone he seldom uses, but which, when used, is seldom disobeyed. Lilian submits to the muffling in silence, and, though outwardly ungrateful, is inwardly honestly rejoiced at it. As he fastens it beneath her chin, he stoops his head, until his eyes are on a level with hers.
"Was it kind of you, or proper, do you think, to make me so—so uneasy as I have been all this afternoon and evening?" he asks, compelling her to return his gaze.