"Oh, Launce, how unkind you are!" She is lying back in her chair, the lamplight falling upon her bare arms, her round white throat, and the diamond cross that sparkles on her bosom.
Her dress of some soft yellow stuff that shines like silk and drapes like velvet. She wears no flowers or ornaments of any kind, except the cross on her breast and some old-fashioned gold pins in her hair. Launce Blake, as he looks at her, feels the glamour of her beauty stealing over him like a spell.
His heart is beating furiously; his jealousy and distrust are waning fast before the passion of his love that is grown to be a part of his life.
"Is it any wonder that I am racked with fear? You are so beautiful, any man must love you! And this Hunter—who is he, that he should take his place in the house more like the master of it than a mere guest? And what right has he to keep every one away from you?"
"Dear"—she laughs softly; she has such an exquisite laugh—liquid, entrancing—"the man is ridiculous, I grant you. But then—so many men are ridiculous!"
Is she laughing at him? The eyes raised to his have just a touch of mockery in their lustrous depths, or he fancies they have. He is never quite sure of her—this woman who holds him by so strong a tie. There are times when he is driven half frantic by her "humor," just as there are times when he thinks himself the happiest man on earth because she loves him.
"We are all fools where a woman is concerned!" he says bluntly, and walks to one of the windows, setting it wide open, and letting the wind rush in with a shriek that makes Mrs. Dundas start in her chair.
"Oh, what a terrible night!" she says shivering. "I do not envy you your ride over the bog, if you take that road."
"Of course I shall take it, as usual! Why not?"
She is looking at him, a curious anxiety in her drooping eyes.