"Ay, too well," I answered bitterly, for I was thinking of my father and hers. "There is a great work which lies before me, Miss Devereux, and I fear that I shall do little towards it down here. Life is too pleasant altogether—dangerously pleasant."
"And yet you work hard, my uncle says," she observed; "too hard, he says, sometimes. You look tired to-night."
I might well, for I had ridden over thirty miles without a rest; but I would have ridden another thirty to have won another such glance from her sweet blue eyes.
"A moment's pleasure is worth a day's work," I said, recklessly, "and I have had nearly an hour's."
She opened the gate and passed through at once with a gesture of contempt.
"If you cannot remember, Mr. Arbuthnot, that I am not Lady Olive, and that such speeches only appear ridiculous to me, I think you had better go home," she said, coldly.
I looked down—tall though I was, it was not far to stoop—into her slightly flushed face, and through the dusky twilight I could see her eyes sparkling with a gleam of indignation. She was right to say that I had better go home—nay, I had better never have started. What had come over me that I should find my heart throbbing with pleasure to be alone with the daughter of the man whom I hated? It was treachery to my father, and, as the thought of him wandering about in his weary exile rushed into my mind, a sudden shame laid hold of me. I drew myself up, and strode along in silence, speaking never another word until we reached the gate leading on to the lawn. Then I opened it, and raising my cap with a half-mechanical gesture, stood aside to let her pass.
"Good-evening, Mr. Arbuthnot."
"Good-evening, Miss Devereux."
It might have been merely a fancy, but it seemed to me that she lingered for a second, as though expecting me to say something else. And though I was gazing fixedly over her head, I knew well that her eyes were raised to mine. But I stood silent and frowning, waiting only for her to pass on, and so she went without another word.