“Joseph will be busy,” said the Honourable Philippa tartly. “Ruth dear, would you like to accompany your cousin?”
“If you would excuse me, aunt, I should prefer to stay,” said Ruth humbly, and with a lively recollection of the snubbing she had once received for eagerly embracing a similar offer.
“Would dear Lord Henry mind taking Marie unaccompanied by anyone else?” said the Honourable Philippa; and Lord Henry said he should only be too charmed to take her alone.
Marie had been sitting with a half-contemptuous smile upon her lip, but as Lord Henry turned to her she rose and left the room, to return shortly with a large scarf thrown over her head and round her neck.
The old man gazed wistfully at the beautiful figure, and uttered a low sigh. Then, rising, the couple left the room, Lord Henry saying that they would not be long; and, descending, they crossed the court and made their way into the gardens, confining themselves first to the broader walks, talking of the beauty of the night, the lovely effects of light and shadow in the formal old place, whose closely-clipped angularity was softened by the night.
Marie said but little, listening in a quiet, contented frame of mind while Lord Henry made comparisons between the gardens and park and those of Versailles, Fontainebleau, and other places he had visited abroad.
“You would like to travel, would you not?” he said, looking at her inquiringly.
“I used to think it would be one of the greatest joys of existence,” she replied; “but somehow of late I have felt content to stay as I am.”
“Always?” he said sadly.
“Yes. I don’t know.—Lord Henry,” she whispered, in a quick, agitated manner, “take me away from here. Let us go back.”