"Ay, tremble!" says she, gayly; then softly, "If that is all you have to fear, Philip, you are a happy man. And when you have got the two thousand pounds, will you be free?"
"No, but comparatively easy for awhile. And who knows, by that time——"
"He may die?"
"Or something may turn up," exclaims he, hurriedly, not looking at her, and therefore unable to wonder at the stolidity and utter unconcern of her expression.
At this moment a querulous, broken voice comes to them from some inner room. "Marcia, Marcia!" it calls, with trembling impatience; and, with a last flick at the unoffending peacock, she turns to go, yet lingers, as though loath to leave her companion.
"Good-bye,—for awhile," she says.
"Good-bye," replies he, and, clasping her lightly round the waist, presses a kiss upon her cheek,—not upon her lips.
"You will be here when I return?" asks she, turning a face slightly flushed by his caress toward him as she stands with one foot placed upon the bow-window sill preparatory to entering the room beyond. There is hope fully expressed in her tone.
"No, I think not," replies he, carelessly. "The afternoon is fine; I want to ride into Longley, for——" But to the peacocks alone is the excuse made known, as Marcia has disappeared.