Her heart, like his own, perhaps, was full to bursting—beating with love and yearning, yet stifled under the exterior that good breeding and the conventionality of 'society' inculcated.
'I hope you find the climate of England pleasant after—after India,' she remarked, when there was a pause in the conversation.
'Oh, yes—of course—Miss Collingwood—my native air.'
'Our climate is so very variable.'
Captain Chute agreed with her cordially that it was so.
Though subjects not to be approached by either, each was doubtful how the heart of the other stood in the matters of love and affection.
Trevor Chute had, all things considered, though their engagement had been brought to a calamitous end, good reason, he thought, to be jealous of Harvey Desmond; while Clare had equal reason to doubt whether, in the years that were gone, and in his wanderings in that land of the sun from whence he had just returned so bronzed and scorched, he might have loved, and become, even now, engaged to another.
She was only certain of one fact: that he was yet unmarried.
These very ideas and mutual suspicions made their conversation disjointed; hollow, and unprofitable; but now, luckily, an awkward pause was interrupted by the entrance of a fair and handsome, dashing yet delicate-looking girl, attired for a ride in the Row, with her whip and gloves in one hand, her gathered skirt in the other.
Though neither bashful nor shy, her bright blue eyes glanced inquiringly at their military-looking visitor, to whom she merely bowed, and was, perhaps, about to withdraw, when Clare said: