He turned and picked up his hat from a chair. As the long peacock feather caught his eye, again he groaned inwardly. He was for flinging the hat aside, but Lady Anne was watching him. He put it on his head desperately, and came out on to the path beside her, feeling for all the world a mountebank, a popinjay, a fool. Why, oh why! had he maliciously defied the Fates? Why, oh why! had this peacock feather lain in his path once long ago? And still further, why had he been idiot enough to pick it up and wear it merely in a spirit of contradiction, because once upon a time a woman had announced her belief in a superstition regarding peacock feathers.
He attempted to appear unconcerned, at his ease, but he was aware that the attempt was a poor one. Nor did the amazed glances of the [Pg 199]villagers, as they crossed the green, tend to reassure him. Yet here was Lady Anne walking calmly, quietly, entirely at her ease, entirely dignified. Why was he ass enough to care for the glances of these yokels! Yet he knew it was not for himself that he cared, but for his Lady, his divinity, who had deigned herself to visit his cottage, to ask him with her own lips to perform a service for her. He longed for a flow of words to come to him, yet none but the most banal remark presented itself to his mind, therefore he walked beside her in silence.
At the entrance to the drive Peter suddenly shivered, why, he did not know, for the day, though grey, was hot. It was as if some slight indefinable feeling of apprehension had struck him.
Anne glanced at him. “Cold?” she queried, smiling.
“No,” responded Peter, smiling in response. “I fancy it was—according to the old adage—a goose walking over my grave.”
“Oh!” said Anne. And the slight feeling of uneasiness, which had temporarily departed, returned.
“Which, so say the superstitious folk,” continued [Pg 200]Peter lightly, “denotes misfortune to the owner of the grave. Personally—” He broke off with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
“You are not a believer in omens and superstitions,” suggested Anne in conclusion. “So I might suppose. Your—your hat decoration is generally regarded as provocative of ill-luck,” she smiled.
Peter flushed. “It’s a fool thing to wear,” he said lamely, “but——”
“On the contrary,” said Anne demurely, “it fits in with your rôle. I believe it was the rumour of the peacock feather that first gave me the courage to ask you to play to me. It sounded fantastic, unusual. I dared to think that you might respond to an unusual invitation. The feather, I repeat, gave me courage.”