‘Aunt Margaret does. She likes plumes. I thought I might perhaps find something sweetly modest and simple, with one feather and one bow, and a little flower or sprig for instance, for next to nothing.’
‘Is this shopping considered a secret service affair?’ inquired Jerome; ‘or may I go too, if I sit quite still while you are in the shop, and promise not to look that way?’
‘I am afraid you would think it a great bore,’ said Nita quickly, as her face flushed.
‘I suppose it was because I love to bore and afflict myself that I asked permission to go,’ he answered, with a smile.
‘I shall be most happy to take you if you would really like to go. Will you come too, papa?’
‘What an idea!—I hope not!’ thought Jerome, within himself, and Mr. Bolton was obliging enough to say:
‘I?—no. I never drive in the afternoon. I am going to my Italian, as usual.’
But as the carriage was not ordered to be round until half an hour after dinner, Mr. Bolton proposed to Jerome that they should take a walk round the garden and have a cigar. Nita watched the two figures as they paced together towards the cloisters. The elder man, with the massive lines, broad, sturdy figure, somewhat below middle height, but still imposing in its power and strength; the somewhat bowed back and high shoulders; the round, bull-dog head, with its expression of dogged determination. The younger—Nita leaned against the side of the window and folded her arms, as she contemplated him with a strange mixture of sensations. What a contrast to that dear familiar figure of the man who was noted for his hardness and coldness to others, but who was so gentle, so tender and indulgent to her, and to the few friends who composed their small circle of intimates—a contrast indeed! The new-comer was—unconsciously she recalled those lines in ‘Esther’—
‘He was a lovely youth; I guess
The panther in the wilderness