“Oh, but you mustn’t tell me,” said Lucy.
“Oh, yes I must, and I’m going to begin now. I shall tell you all my ventures, and what I win, and when I am going to train; and—I say, Lucy, you did come out this morning to see me train?”
“Indeed, I did not,” she cried; “and even if I had, I should not tell you so.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Rolph, laughing. “I’m satisfied.”
“What a monster for poor Glynne to be engaged to. I believe, if I were to encourage him, he’d break off his engagement.”
“I am glad I met you,” said Rolph, suddenly, and he went a little closer to Lucy, who started aside into the wet grass, and glanced hastily round. “Why, what are you doing?” he said.
“I wanted to pick that mushroom,” she said.
“Oh, never mind the mushrooms, you’ll make your little feet wet, and I want to talk to you. I say, I’m going to train again to-morrow morning. You’ll come, won’t you. Pray do!—Who’s this?”
Both started, for, having approached unheard, his pony’s paces muffled by the turf, Philip Oldroyd cantered by them, gazing hard at Lucy, and raising his hat stiffly to Rolph, as he went past.
“Confound him! Where did he spring from?” cried Rolph. “Why, he quite startled you,” he continued, for Lucy’s face, which had flushed crimson, now turned of a pale waxen hue.