“Oh yes, sir, and indeed I shall, for your honour’s been mortal kind, I’m sure!”
“Ha’ done with your play-acting, girl!” said he so sharply that she started and would have risen, but his grip on her arm restrained her.
“Play-acting?” she repeated in altered voice. “How, sir? D’ye think——”
“’Tis no matter, child,” he answered lightly; “my thoughts are my own. But for a little space I would have you your best, most worthy self. To-morrow we part and may meet again but rarely ... if ever. Shall you bear in your mind a kindly memory of me, Rose?”
“Yes,” she answered gravely.
“When you shall hear wild tales of the ‘Wicked Dering,’ will you think of him as ... as he is now ... a man perchance a little better than he is painted?”
“Yes,” she answered again, conscious of his dejected attitude though she saw his face but a pale blur in the gloom. “And will your honour be returning to Paris?”
“No, child.”
“To London?”
“Nor London. I intend to live in the country for awhile.”