"Go on; answer me," he says, eagerly.
"I don't know. I never thought about it," I murmur, somewhat troubled. "It is such an odd question. You see, if he had come in your place I would not then have known you, and if he had been as kind—yes, I suppose I would have liked him just as well," I conclude, quickly.
Of course I have said the wrong thing. The moment my speech is finished I know this. Mr. Carrington's eyes leave mine; he mutters something between his teeth, and brings the whip down sharply on the far leader.
"These brutes grow lazier every day," he says with an unmistakable frown.
Five—six minutes pass, and he does not address me. I feel annoyed with myself, yet innocent of having intentionally offended. Presently stealing a glance at my companion, I say, contritely,—-
"Have I vexed you, Mr. Carrington?"
"No, no," he answers, hastily, the smile coming home to his lips. "Don't think so. Surely truthfulness, being so rare a virtue, should be precious. I am an irritable fellow at times, and you are finding out all my faults to-night," he says, rather sadly, laying his hand for an instant upon mine, as it lies bare and small and brown upon the rug. "You have proved me both ill-tempered and selfish. You will say I am full of defects."
"Indeed I will not," I return, earnestly, touched by his manner: "I do not even see the faults you mention; and at all events no one was ever before so kind to me as you have been."
"I would be kinder if I dared," he says, somewhat unsteadily.
While I ponder on what these words may mean, while the first dim foreboding—suspicion—what you will—enters my mind, we see Rylston, and pull up to give the Hastings time to alight and bid their adieux. Then we go on again, always in the strange silence that has fallen upon us, and presently find ourselves at home.