She glanced up at him with a startled look, and he fancied—yes, he dared to fancy—that she was sorry.
‘You have not stopped long at Hazlehurst,’ she said, after a palpable pause.
‘As if any one would who was not absolutely obliged,’ cried Celia. ‘I can’t imagine how Mr. Treverton has existed through an entire week.’
‘I assure you that I have not found my existence a burden,’ said John, addressing himself to Celia. ‘I shall leave Hazlehurst with deep regret.’
He could not for worlds, in his present mood, have said as much to Laura.
‘Then you must be one of two things,’ said Celia.
‘What things?’
‘You must be either a poet, or intensely in love. There is my brother here. He never seems tired of roaming about Hazlehurst. But then he is a poet, and writes verses about March violets, and the first leafbuds on the willows, and the reappearance of the May-fly, or the return of the swallow. And he smokes no end, and he reads novels to an extent that is absolutely demoralizing. It’s dreadful to see a man dependent upon Mudie for getting through his life,’ exclaimed Celia, making a face that expressed extreme contempt.
‘I am not a poet, Miss Clare,’ said John Treverton, quietly; ‘yet I confess to having been very happy at Hazlehurst.’
He stole a glance at Laura to see if the shot told. She was looking down, her sweet, grave face pure and pale as ivory in the clear evening light.