I sigh, and turning dejectedly from the unvarying scene before me, discover Marmaduke coming towards me across the sands.
"What a curious light!" he says, without greeting of any kind and sits down upon the pebbles at my feet.
"Very," I answer, stupidly, and then begin to wonder vaguely what has brought him to-day from the busy town, and who has betrayed my favorite hiding-place.
Presently, unconsciously I sigh again, and turn my face from him. "What is it?" asks he, kindly, taking my hand—not affectionately, merely reassuringly. "Tell me the truth now to-day. Is it that you hate me?"
"I hardly know," I return, wearily, "No, it is not hatred, I think; it is indifference."
We rise, and pace silently homewards.
It is the evening of the same day, My depression of the morning has vanished, leaving a spirit of provocation in its place. I am in the drawing-room, lounging idly in a low cushioned chair, with Fifine, my pet Skye, in my lap. I amuse myself, and gratify the wickedness within me, by practising upon the long-suffering animal such mild torments as disturb without maddening her.
'Duke, under the impression that there is a fire in the grate stands with his back to the fireplace, and stares at me.
"I wish," he remarks presently, without premeditation, "you could be induced to take Sir James' advice and seek change of air. This solitary hole must have a bad effect upon your health.
"I have borne the solitude for so many months that I dare day I can bear it again. Though, indeed," mischievously, "I had company at times. I could actually have been married, had I so chosen."