He saying no more than he thinks; far less. For he believes she could make fate itself—control it, as she can his. And as he would now confess to her—is almost on the eve of it—but hindered by recalling that strange look and sigh sent after Shenstone. His fond fancies, the sweet dreams he has been indulging in ever since making her acquaintance, may have been but illusions. She may be playing with him, as he would with a fish on his hook. As yet, no word of love has passed her lips. Is there thought of it in her heart—for him?
“In what way? What mean you?” she asks, her liquid eyes turned upon him with a look of searching interrogation.
The question staggers him. He does not answer it as he would, and again replies evasively—somewhat confusedly.
“Oh! I only meant, Miss Wynn—that you so young—so—well, with all the world before you—surely have your happiness in your own hands.”
If he knew how much it is in his he would speak more courageously, and possibly with greater plainness. But he knows not, nor does she tell him. She, too, is cautiously retentive, and refrains taking advantage of his words, full of suggestion.
It will need another seance—possibly more than one—before the real confidence can be exchanged between them. Natures like theirs do not rush into confession as the common kind. With them it is as with the wooing of eagles.
She simply rejoins:
“I wish it were,” adding with a sigh, “Far from it, I fear.”
He feels as if he had drifted into a dilemma—brought about by his own gaucherie—from which something seen up the river, on the opposite side, offers an opportunity to escape—a house. It is the quaint old habitation of Tudor times. Pointing to it, he says:
“A very odd building, that! If I’ve been rightly informed, Miss Wynn, it belongs to a relative of yours?”