She was so changed and shaken, that for the first time in her life he frightened her. She felt as if she were powerless in a strong grasp. Where could she turn?
“Why do you say this to me, Oliver?” she said slowly. “What have I done? I have not forgotten your goodness about Clive, or—what you said. Why should I? There is no one else to whom I can turn. But you—you should not oblige me to speak of it here, with all these people as our guests.”
She said the words very softly and gently, but she did not look at him as she spoke.
“When will you speak, then?” he said moodily. “To-night?”
“Not to-night, not to-night, please! To-morrow.”
“I am tired of to-morrows. Why should it always be to-morrow? No. This evening in the garden.”
She did not contradict him any further. After all, it was hardly worth while.
Ibbetson could not get any more conversation with Bice on their way back to the villa, for Oliver quietly baffled his attempts, and Miss Preston was pouring out to every one her own views as to possible improvements in the vintage—the grapes should be trained differently, there should be a revolving wheel in the tubs, someone should read to the contadine.
“Still I own to one improvement, for I am pleased to have had ocular demonstration that the barbarous fashion of treading out the grapes is no longer in practice. It gives one a certain hope.”
“But that is another stage,” exclaimed Kitty innocently; “don’t you know? They put the grapes into huge shallow tubs and jump on them till the juice is extracted. All the boys and girls help. After our share has been weighed in the cellar we shall make it at home.”