It was quite dark now.
Myra slipped her hand into his, which closed upon it with a strong unhesitating clasp.
“Go on, Jim,” she said, softly.
“I went out into the hall, and saw your name in the visitors’ book. The ink was still wet. The handwriting was that of the holiday-child—I should like to set you copies! The name surprised me—agreeably. I had expected to be able at once to place the woman who had walked up the path. It was a surprise and a relief to find that my Fairy-land Princess was not after all a fashionable beauty or a society leader, but owned just a simple Irish name, and lived at a Lodge.”
“Go on, Jim,” said Lady Ingleby, rather tremulously.
“Then the name ‘Shenstone’ interested me, because I know the Inglebys—at least, I knew Lord Ingleby, well; and I shall soon know Lady Ingleby. In fact I have written to-day asking for an interview. I must see her on business connected with notes of her husband’s which, if she gives permission, are to be embodied in my book. I suppose if you live near Shenstone Park you know the Inglebys?”
“Yes,” said Myra. “But tell me, Jim; if—if you noticed so much that first day; if you were—interested; if you wanted to set me copies—yes, I know I write a shocking hand;—why would you never look at me? Why were you so stiff and unfriendly? Why were you not as nice to me as you were to Susie, for instance?”
Jim Airth sat long in silence, staring out into the darkness. At last he said:
“I want to tell you. Of course, I must tell you. But—may I ask a few questions first?”
Lady Ingleby also gazed unseeingly into the darkness; but she leaned a little nearer to the broad shoulder beside her. “Ask me what you will,” she said. “There is nothing, in my whole life, I would not tell you, Jim Airth.”