‘No.’
‘You did not walk?’
‘I hardly know how I came; I believe I walked.’
‘You must be very tired; and you are standing! pray sit down; sit in that chair; you know that is your favourite chair.’
And Ferdinand seated himself in the very chair in which he had watched her the preceding night.
‘This is certainly my favourite chair,’ he said; ‘I know no seat in the world I prefer to this.’
‘Will you take some refreshment? I am sure you will; you must be very tired. Take some hock; papa always takes hock and soda water. I shall order some hock and soda water for you.’ She rose and rang the bell in spite of his remonstrance.
‘And have you been walking, Miss Temple?’ enquired Ferdinand.
‘I was thinking of strolling now,’ she replied, ‘but I am glad that you have called, for I wanted an excuse to be idle.’
An hour passed away, nor was the conversation on either side very brilliantly supported. Ferdinand seemed dull, but, indeed, was only moody, revolving in his mind many strange incidents and feelings, and then turning for consolation in his perplexities to the enchanting vision on which he still could gaze. Nor was Miss Temple either in her usually sparkling vein; her liveliness seemed an effort; she was more constrained, she was less fluent than before. Ferdinand, indeed, rose more than once to depart; yet still he remained. He lost his cap; he looked for his cap; and then again seated himself. Again he rose, restless and disquieted, wandered about the room, looked at a picture, plucked a flower, pulled the flower to pieces.