It was Sidney, ridden over from Cambridge on a hired horse. Gwynneth had time to come out of the summer-house to meet him, but none to think. So he had given her a kiss before she realised what that meant—and knew in her heart that it must be the last. And the next moment she saw that he was displeased.
"So here you are!" was his verbal greeting: "I've been looking for you all over the shop."
"I'm so sorry," said poor Gwynneth. "If you had only let us know——"
"Oh, that's all right; I took my risk, of course."
He looked her up and down, as she stood in the sunlight, tall and comely, her state of mind instinctively and successfully concealed; and the brown tinge came upon his handsome face as the annoyance vanished. Endearments fell from his lips, but now she made him keep his distance, though so tactfully that he obviously did not realise his repulse. Gwynneth looked at him for an instant with great compassion; then she led the way into the summer-house, her mind made up.
"You haven't been here all the morning, have you?" he went on. "No, I see you haven't; there are your gloves."
"Yes."
"Been for a walk?"
"Well, I did go for one."
"What do you mean?" demanded Sidney, struck at last by her manner.