“Well said, Octavia. I agree with you, and your own is a perfect sample of the kind you describe.” And Treherne smiled as he rolled by to join Mrs. Snowdon, who evidently waited for him, while Octavia turned to her brother to defend her pets.
“Are you sure? How did you discover?” said Maurice, affecting to admire the lady's bouquet, as he paused beside her.
“I suspected it the moment I saw her this morning. She is no actress; and dislike, distrust, and contempt were visible in her face when we met. Till you so cleverly told me my note was lost, I fancied she was disturbed about her brother—or you.”
A sudden pause and a keen glance followed the last softly uttered word, but Treherne met it with an inscrutable smile and a quiet “Well, what next?”
“The moment I learned that you did not get the note I was sure she had it, and, knowing that she must have seen me put it there, in spite of her apparent innocence, I quietly asked her for it. This surprised her, this robbed the affair of any mystery, and I finished her perplexity by sending it to the major the moment she returned it to me, as if it had been intended for him. She begged pardon, said her brother was thoughtless, and she watched over him lest he should get into mischief; professed to think I meant the line for him, and behaved like a charming simpleton, as she is.”
“Quite a tumult about nothing. Poor little Tavie! You doubtlessly frightened her so that we may safely correspond hereafter.”
“You may give me an answer, now and here.”
“Very well, meet me on the terrace tomorrow morning; the peacocks will make the meeting natural enough. I usually loiter away an hour or two there, in the sunny part of the day.”
“But the girl?”
“I'll send her away.”