Flood was embarrassed, and looked it; but Mrs. Maxwell gave him no chance to reply. "Rosamund, I hate to speak so plainly," she said, "but there are times when you go too far with your absurdities. Nobody goes sight-seeing; we are Mr. Flood's guests, and we have miles of steep road to get over this afternoon; you cannot upset his plans in this way. Besides, it's altogether too warm for exertion—and emotion. You'll have to get your thrills in some less strenuous way. I simply refuse to be dragged over any battlefield in existence."
Mrs. Maxwell sank back in her corner, and resolutely looked away; Rosamund, still smiling, turned towards Flood.
"We'll leave her in the car to amuse Marshall, and we'll take one of those funny little carriages, won't we, Mr. Flood?"
Her smile and little air of confidence brought color to Flood's face; he opened and closed his hands nervously. His boasted imagination failed him. The lady of his dreams was doing the unexpected. His voice showed his perplexity.
"My dear Miss Randall, I'd do anything in the world to please you! There are some miles of mountain roads to be gone over, if we are to get back to-night, but"—he leaned towards her—"when you ask me, you know I could not refuse you anything in the world, even at the risk of Mrs. Maxwell's displeasure!"
His words and manner instantly accomplished all that Cecilia's insistence had failed to do. Immediately Rosamund's face lost its bright eagerness for the same indifferent coldness that she usually showed him.
"Oh, by all means, let us remember the mountain roads, Mr. Flood," she said, leaning back upon the yielding cushion, turning her head to look listlessly out of the car.
"Oh, please!" poor Flood exclaimed.
Cecilia began to chatter gaily, and Marshall bent over his road maps. The car flew out of the town, noiselessly except for the faint humming of its swift onrush, the modern song of the road. But, to Rosamund, there was no melody in the song; she was out of tune with the day, with her companions, with the ride itself.