“And do you really think any happiness could come of a marriage arranged like that?—in that cold-blooded fashion?” asked Bayre, warmly.
The girl blushed a deep red.
“My mother was a Frenchwoman,” she answered simply. “And if you know anything of France you must know that there it is not customary for girls to have so much freedom of choice as in England.”
“But you’re English—your father was an Englishman,” said Bayre, warmly. And then a bright thought struck him: “you see I, being your guardian’s nephew, may be looked upon as a sort of relation of yours—”
“Oh, no,” cried Miss Eden, rippling with smiles.
“Yes, indeed,” persisted Bayre, emphatically. “My uncle is nothing but an old fossil, who knows little more of the world than you do yourself. I begin to see that it’s nothing less than my duty to bring my own greater knowledge and experience to bear upon this matter. In short, if your guardian won’t do his duty and exercise a proper discretion on your behalf, I shall have to do it for him, and, and—”
“And choose a husband for me?” asked Miss Eden, in the most solemn and demure tone, the while her bright eyes flashed with the humour of the thing.
“Exactly,” replied Bayre, as solemnly as she, while his eyes looked into hers, seeing the roguery in them and answering it with mischief in his own.
By this time both were bubbling over with suppressed laughter, enjoying intensely this huge joke of his vague relationship and assumed authority. Bayre’s disappointment and irritation at his uncle’s snub were both forgotten. Miss Eden had forgotten, too, that her errand in meeting the young man had been one of benevolent sympathy and consolation. They had wandered together away from the opening in the cliff and downwards among the dead fern and brambles towards the shore. Bayre had had to help her, now and then, with a strong hand holding hers as they stepped over loose stones and thorny clumps of bush and bramble. It was pleasant, exciting, this aimless ramble in the winter sunlight, with the sea breeze blowing in their faces and the splash of the waves in their ears.
And then, suddenly, there broke upon them a sound less pleasant, because it called them back to life and prose. This was the voice of Repton calling to Bayre by name. The young man stood still and looked round. Neither Repton nor Southerley was in sight yet, but a glimpse of an old blue blouse and of a crouching back behind a clump of bushes at the top of the cliff showed that the idyllic promenade of the two young people had not been unobserved.