Her hand fell upon his. They sat side by side in an almost breathless silence, safely screened from observation unless the passers-by, whoever they might be, should be unusually curious.
It was Pauline and Rochester who came—Pauline in a tailor-made gown of dark green cloth—Pauline, slim, tall and elegant. Rochester was bending toward her, talking earnestly. He wore a tweed shooting suit, and carried a gun under either arm.
“You see who it is?” Lois whispered.
Saton nodded. His face had darkened, his cheeks were almost livid. His eyes followed the two with an expression which terrified the girl who sat by his side.
“Bertrand,” she whispered, “why do you look like that?”
“Like what?” he asked, without moving his eyes from the spot where those two figures had disappeared.
She shivered a little.
“You looked as though you hated Mr. Rochester. You looked angry—more than angry. You frightened me.”
“I do hate him,” Saton answered slowly. “I hate him as he hates me. We are enemies.”