“Lady Gernon, you look pale.”
“I believe, Sir Murray,” said Norton, “Lady Gernon was startled and troubled at our sudden encounter.”
“Exactly,” said Sir Murray, quietly.
“You misunderstand me,” said Norton, gravely, the shadow deepening upon his face. “I alluded to her encounter with me. Five minutes since, I met her by accident.”
“Most accurate,” said Sir Murray, smiling.
“And after the past—after the misunderstanding between our families, Sir Murray,” continued Norton, not heeding the taunt.
“Exactly?” said Sir Murray.
“I was sorry that the meeting should have taken place. Lady Gernon,” he said, turning to her, as he raised his hat, “I will deliver your message. It is, I know, both pain and sorrow to dear Ada that you should be apart. Still, I think it is for the best. Rest assured, though, that the love you sent her is yours in return. Heaven bless you! Good-bye, Sir Murray Gernon!” he said, turning to the smiling baronet—who stood with one hand buried in his breast-pocket—“I am sorry for the past; but it is irrevocable, and I still repeat that I am sorry for this encounter. Lady Gernon seems pale and ill. Good day.”
He held out his hand quietly and frankly to the baronet, though he had forborne to do so to his lady, and there was an air of calm innocence in his aspect, that should have carried with it conviction; but Sir Murray never stirred; his hand was still buried in his breast, as, with a mocking smile, he said:
“Captain Norton, the army was never your vocation, any more than the losing office of mine-director.”