Ella is now running towards him, as he stands in the shelter of the rhododendrons, the dog running after her, jumping about her, with soft velvety paws and a wagging tail. Suddenly he springs upon her and threatens the daintiness of her frock.
‘Down now! Down now! Down!’ cries she, laughing. She catches the handsome brute round the neck, and looks into his eyes. “Does he love his own missis, then? Then down! It is really down now, sir. Not another jump. See’—glancing ruefully at her pretty white serge dress—‘the stains you have made here already.’
How soft, how delicate is her voice, how full of affection for the dog! Surely, ‘There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple.’
Wyndham comes forward very casually from amongst the bushes.
‘Oh—you!’ cries she, colouring delightfully, but showing no embarrassment—he would have liked a little embarrassment. He tells himself that the want of it quite proves his theory that she regards him merely as a good friend—no more.
‘Yes; I have run down for an hour or so. You’—looking round him—‘have been quite a good fairy to my flowers, I see.’
‘Oh, your flowers!’ says she gaily, yet shyly too. Her air is of the happiest. She has, indeed, been a different creature since Wyndham had assured her a few months ago of Moore’s actual arrival in Australia. ‘Why, they are mine now, aren’t they? You have given them to me with this.’ She threw out her arms in a little appropriative way towards the garden.
‘In a way—yes.’ He pauses. Passion is rising within him. ‘Come in,’ says he abruptly. ‘There is something I must say to you.’
The pretty drawing-room is bright with flowers, and there is a certain air of daintiness—a charm—about the whole place that tells of the refinement of its owner. It is not Miss Manning who has given this delicate cosiness to it—Miss Manning, good soul, who is now in the kitchen, very proud in the fond belief that she is helping Mrs. Denis to make marmalade. No! In every cluster of early roses, in every bunch of sweet-smelling daffodils, in the pushing of the chairs here, and the screens there, Wyndham can see the touch of Ella’s hand.
In the far-off window, on a little table, stands the dressing-case that he had sent her after his interview with Moore. It is open, and some of the contents—what remains of them—with their silver tops, are shining in the rays of the sun. The girl’s glance catches them, and all at once the merry touch upon her lips dies away, and gloom settles on her brow. The lost bottles, the battered and dismantled case, seem to Wyndham but the broken links of a broken life, and a thrill of pity urges him to instant speech.