"I was out of temper, Minnie; not fit company for nice people. How do you do, Hilda?"
He had fallen into the way of calling her by her Christian name almost from the beginning of their acquaintance; in those days when he had been so much brighter and happier than he seemed to be now.
The donkey jogged on, carrying off the twins, Minnie holding forth all the time, lecturing Bothwell for his rudeness. The Fräulein followed, eager to protect her charges. They were only a few paces in advance, but Hilda felt as if she were alone with Bothwell.
"So the children have had their long-promised tea-party," he said, "and I was out of it. Hard lines."
"They missed you very much," said Hilda. "But did not you know it was to be this afternoon?"
"I knew yesterday—Dora told me," answered Bothwell, hitting the wild flowers savagely with his cane, as he walked by Hilda's side.
Unconsciously they had fallen into a much slower pace than the Fräulein and the donkey, and they were quite alone.
"I knew all about the tea-party, and I meant to be with you; and then something went wrong with me this morning, and I felt only fit company for devils. If Satan had been giving a tea-party anywhere within reach, I would have gone to that," concluded Bothwell vindictively.
"I am very glad Satan does not give tea-parties in Cornwall. Of course you know that he would never trust himself in our county, for fear our Cornish cooks should make him into a pie," answered Hilda, trying to smile. "But I am very sorry to hear you have been worried."
"My life has been made up of worries for the last six months. I try sometimes to be cheerful—reckless rather—and to forget; and then the viper begins to bite again."