"Spice of temper there," chuckled Torry, and went after her, leaving Darrel alone in the room.
The young man walked up and down to calm his spirit and quiet his brain. Always of a passionate and sensuous nature, he had hitherto curbed his instincts by a strong will, and subdued his love of pleasure in order to serve his art the more faithfully. He had never been in love, and in a somewhat cold-blooded fashion had regarded the other sex more or less as object-studies, to be analysed mercilessly for the creation of types in fiction. But the god of love, who will not be denied, and who sooner or later, asserts his empire over all born of the flesh, had come to Frank Darrel, in all his might, and the heart-free man of an hour since was now in danger of becoming the slave of a woman. It was incredible, Darrel argued, that he could have fallen in love with one whom he had known scarcely an hour, who had entered into his life only on that day. Yet, how otherwise was he able to account for the strange excitement which possessed him? He was hot one moment, cold the next; burning as with fever, chilled as with ague; and ever before his eyes appeared that lovely face with the glorious eyes and rich colouring. Donna Maria was a tropical flower, burning and gorgeous; and the splendour of her beauty, the passion of the spirit which flamed in her eyes, and governed the inflexions of her voice, moved the heart of Darrel strangely. The miracle of the man's life had occurred; and--although he scarcely knew it--he was in love. And why should not love be born of a glance? The improbable is always the possible.
Taken up with his own thoughts, Darrel did not observe that the man and woman who had been walking in the garden were entering the room through one of the French windows. An exclamation of astonishment from the lady roused him from his brown study, and he turned to explain his presence. As he did so, the man, a light-haired, fresh-coloured young fellow of thirty, ran forward with a smile and outstretched hand.
"Darrel, my dear boy, is this you?" he cried heartily.
"Roderick Mortimer!" said Darrel, clasping the stranger's hand.
"Not now. I am Roderick Blake. An Irish uncle left me property on the condition that I took his name. The property has gone, but the name remains. No wonder you didn't recognise your old schoolfellow by it."
"I should know you anywhere; you are not altered at all."
"Faith! that's a compliment," said Blake angrily; "but it's my manners I'm forgetting. Lydia, my dear, let me present to you an old friend and schoolfellow, Mr. Frank Darrel, barrister and novelist, which means that he has left the law and taken to the profits. Darrel, my boy, Miss Lydia Hargone, who will very shortly be changed into Mrs. Roderick Blake, of Rainbow Castle, Cloud-cuckoo Land."
"Roderick, how you do rattle on!" said Lydia, smilingly. "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Darrel."
The governess was a fair-haired, bland woman, with grey eyes and a rather hard mouth. She was not beautiful, but possessed an attractive manner, and was dressed with a quiet perfection that shewed excellent taste. In spite of her lack of good looks, there was that about her--what the Italians call simpatica--which would attract at least eight men out of ten. As she pressed Frank's hand and smiled at him with her grey eyes, he felt that here was a woman who could have made him love her. But Miss Hargone, as Frank judged, needed to employ the arts of Vivien to capture hearts; whereas, as in his own case, these same hearts were thrown at the feet of Donna Maria merely because of her splendid beauty. Each woman was attractive in her own way.