“Yes, but his manner—to a looker-on—implies something more than friendship. Oh, Miss Marchant, forgive me if I presume to question you. My motive is no light one. Last January by the lake I saw you and that man meet, with a look on both sides of a preconcerted meeting. I heard, accidentally, some few words which Mr. Sefton spoke to you, while you were walking with him by the lake; and those words implied a secret understanding between you and him—something of deep interest of which the outer world knew nothing. Be frank with me, for pity’s sake. Speak openly to me to-day, from heart to heart, if you never speak to me again. Is not there something more between you and Wilfred Sefton than an everyday friendship?”
“Yes,” she answered, “there is something more. There is a secret understanding—not much of a secret, but Mr. Sefton has taken advantage of it to offer me meaningless attentions which I detest, and which, I dare say, ill-natured people may talk about. They would be sure to think that Mr. Sefton could have no serious intentions about me, that he was only carrying on an idle flirtation.”
“And if he were serious—if he asked you to be his wife?”
“To live in that grand house; to rule over all those acres; to have a wafer-space on that long pedigree! Could Colonel Marchant’s daughter refuse such a chance?”
“Would Colonel Marchant’s daughter accept it?”
“Not this daughter,” answered Eve, gaily. “I might hand him on to Sophy, perhaps. Poor Sophy hankers after the pomps and vanities of this wicked world.”
Her gaiety delighted her lover. It told of an unburdened conscience—a heart at peace with itself.
“Tell me what it was you overheard, Mr. Eavesdropper, that afternoon by the lake?” she asked.
“I heard him say to you, very earnestly, ‘It was a false scent, you see;’ and then he expressed his sorrow for your disappointment.”
“You have a good memory. I, too, remember those words, ‘It was a false scent.’ It was. He had need to be sorry for my disappointment, for he had cheated me with false hopes.”