He said it by no means bitterly. There was even the suggestion of a smile on his clean-shaven face. He looked down at the girl who stood before him, with eyes that were faintly quizzical. She was bending at the moment to cut a tall Madonna lily from a sheaf that grew close to the path. At his quiet words she started and the flower fell.
He stooped and picked it up, considered it for a moment, then slipped it into the basket that was slung on her arm.
"Don't be agitated," he said, gently. "You needn't take me seriously—unless you wish."
She turned a face of piteous entreaty towards him. She was trembling uncontrollably. "Oh, please, Lord Wyverton," she said, earnestly, "please, don't ask me! Don't ask me! I—I felt so sure you wouldn't."
"Did you?" he said. "Why?"
He looked at her with grave interest. He was a straight, well-made man; but his kindest friends could not have called him anything but ugly, and there were a good many who thought him formidable also. Nevertheless, there was that about him—an honesty and a strength—which made up to a very large extent for his lack of other attractions.
"Tell me why," he said.
"Oh, because you are so far above me," the girl said, with an effort. "You must remember that. You can't help it. I have always known that you were not in earnest."
"Have you?" said Lord Wyverton, smiling a little. "Have you? You seem to have rather a high opinion of me, Miss Neville."
She turned back to her flowers. "There are certain things," she said, in a low voice, "that one can't help knowing."