Time proves his surmise right. It is the admired incognita, who almost as he reaches the gate that leads to her bower, comes up to one of the huge rose-bushes that decorate either side of it, and—unconscious of criticism—commences to gather from it such flowers as shall add beauty to the bouquet already growing large within her hands.
Presently the restless feeling that makes us all know when some unexpected presence is near, compels her to raise her head. Thereupon her eyes and those of Cyril Chetwoode meet. She pauses in her occupation as though irresolute; Cyril pauses too; and then gravely, unsmilingly, she bows in cold recognition. Certainly her reception is not encouraging; but Cyril is not to be daunted.
"I hope," he says, deferentially, "your little dog has been conducting himself with due propriety since last I had the pleasure of restoring him to your arms?"
This Grandisonian speech surely calls for a reply.
"Yes," says Incognita, graciously. "I think it was only the worry caused by change of scene made him behave so very badly that—last day."
So saying, she turns from him, as though anxious to give him a gentle congé. But Cyril, driven to desperation, makes one last effort at detaining her.
"I hope your friend is better," he says, leaning his arms upon the top of the gate, and looking full of anxiety about the absent widow. "My brother—Sir Guy—called the other day, and said she appeared extremely delicate."
"My friend?" staring at him in marked surprise, while a faint deep rose flush illumines her cheek, making one forget how white and fragile she appeared a moment since.
"Yes. I mean Mrs. Arlington, our tenant. I am Cyril Chetwoode," raising his hat. "I hope the air here will do her good."
He is talking against time, but she is too much occupied to notice it.