"Do you make any progress with her, Rookleigh?" that amiable lady asked one day.
"None—as yet," he answered sulkily.
"Why, dear?"
"She is always brooding over Derval."
"Though all letters have been intercepted?"
"Yes; but I have plenty of time, however, before he returns—if he returns at all."
"At all! Why not get up a rumour that he is drowned—or married?"
"Not a bad idea, Mother; anyway I shall be sure to succeed," replied Rookleigh, laughing, with something of the contemptuous confidence of youth, and ignorance of the world.
Unaware of the secret impulses that were working, Clara disliked the apparent intimacy between her father and young Rookleigh Hampton. She disliked his constant visits and something in the bearing he was assuming towards herself. The little toleration she had for him at first, as Derval's brother, passed away with the hope of ever hearing of Derval more, and she had—she knew not why—a secret antipathy to Rookleigh.
The latter felt this, and all his attempts to gain her confidence, even to engage her in a pleasant conversation came to nothing.