“Let us in, then, and make ready. Be quick about it! Remember it’s April, and there may be showers. We mustn’t miss a moment of that sweet sunshine.”
At this the two forsake the summer-house; and, lightly recrossing the lawn, disappear within the dwelling.
While the anglers boat is still opposite the grounds, going on, eyes are observing it from an upper window of the house; again those of Miss Wynn herself, inside her dressing-room, getting ready for the river.
She had only short glimpses of it, over the tops of the trees on the eyot, and now and then through breaks in their thinner spray. Enough, however, to assure her that it contains two men, neither of them cockneys. One at the oars she takes to be a professional waterman. But he, seated in the stern is altogether unknown to her, save by sight—that obtained when twice meeting him out on the river. She knows not whence he comes, or where he is residing; but supposes him a stranger to the neighbourhood, stopping at some hotel. If at the house of any of the neighbouring gentry, she would certainly have heard of it. She is not even acquainted with his name, though longing to learn it. But she is shy to inquire, lest that might betray her interest in him. For such she feels, has felt, ever since setting eyes on his strangely handsome face.
As the boat again disappears behind the thick foliage, she sets, in haste, to effect the proposed change of dress, saying, in soliloquy—for she is now alone:—
“I wonder who, and what he can be? A gentleman, of course. But, then, there are gentlemen, and gentlemen; single ones and—”
She has the word “married” on her tongue, but refrains speaking it. Instead, she gives utterance to a sigh, followed by the reflection—
“Ah, me! That would be a pity—a dis—”
Again she checks herself, the thought being enough unpleasant without the words.
Standing before the mirror, and sticking long pins into her hair, to keep its rebellious plaits in their place, she continues soliloquising—