"Won't you come into the house, Lady Laura?"
"By and by, just to pay my respects to your papa. But we'll stay in the garden for the present, please, dear. I have something most particular to say to you."
Clarissa's heart beat a little quicker. This most particular something was about George Fairfax: she felt very sure of that.
"I am going to be quite candid with you, Clary," Lady Laura began presently, when they were in a narrow walk sheltered by hazel bushes, the most secluded bit of the garden. "I shall treat you just as if you were a younger sister of my own. I think I have almost a right to do that; for I'm sure I love you as much as if you were my sister."
And here Lady Laura's plump little black-gloved hand squeezed Clarissa's tenderly.
"You have been all goodness to me," the girl answered; "I can never be too grateful to you."
"Nonsense, Clary; I will not have that word gratitude spoken between us. I only want you to understand that I am sincerely attached to you, and that I am the last person in the world to hold your happiness lightly. And now, dearest child, tell me the truth—have you seen George Fairfax since you left Hale?"
Clarissa flushed crimson. To be asked for the truth, as if, under any circumstances, she would have spoken anything less than truth about George Fairfax! And yet that unwonted guilty feeling clung to her, and she was not a little ashamed to confess that she had seen him.
"Yes, Lady Laura."
"I thought so. I was sure of it. He came here on the very day you left—the day which was to have been his wedding-day."