“Oh, a very jolly old sort of fellow, who lives close to the mine, with an only daughter. He insisted upon my staying there while I was down, and I wasn’t sorry; for—O Janet! let me whisper it in your lovely little shell of an ear,” he continued playfully—“the miner’s cottage I slept at one night was not comfortable; it was grubby, and oh, those fleas! If it had not been for my stout walking-stick—”
“What sort of a person is Miss Gurdon?” said Janet, interrupting him quickly.
“Oh, very nice and ladylike.”
“Pretty?”
“Pretty! Well, you would hardly call it pretty. A sad, pensive face, very sweet and delicate, and with the look of one who had known trouble. There seemed to be some secret about father and daughter.”
“Oh!” said Janet softly, and the colour came into her cheeks very warmly. “And you were very comfortable there?”
“Yes, very,” said Clive emphatically.
“Too comfortable to remember me and write, of course.”
“O Janet, my darling!” he said tenderly, as he passed his arm about her waist, “how can you be such a jealous little thing! As if I could think of any one but you. You were with me night and day. It was always what is Janet doing? how does she look? and is she thinking of me? Whether I was scrambling about down in the mine like a mud-lark, or more decent and talking to Miss Gurdon of an evening in their tiny drawing-room.”
“About me, of course,” said Janet coldly.