"I envy you!" she said.
"You envy me?" There was a curious, almost an eager tone in Deerehurst's voice; but she was too preoccupied to hear it.
"All people are to be envied who have power—and freedom. I get so tired of myself sometimes—so rebellious against myself! I am always doing the things I should not do, and failing to do the things I should. I am hopeless!"
For a space he made no attempt to break in upon her mood; then, very quietly, he bent forward and looked up into her face.
"What is worrying you?" he asked in a whisper. "Confession really is very good for the soul!"
For a moment she answered nothing; then, yielding to an impulse, she met his scrutinising eyes.
"Oh, it's only a letter that won't let itself be written—one of those abominable letters that one has to write. Talking of it does no good!"
"No good? I am not so sure of that. I believe in talking. Tell me about it!"
Clodagh laid her hand nervously on the arm of the seat.
"I have been stupid!" she said almost defiantly. "I have overstepped my allowance, and must ask Mr. Barnard to advance me some money. And—and I, somehow, hate to do it. Am I not a fool?" She laughed unsteadily, and turned to look at her companion; but he had drawn back into the shadow of the seat. "Oh, it's childish! Ridiculous! I am disgusted with myself!" Her glance again crossed the strip of green lawn to where the stone satyr stood.