“But, Mr Trevor, what do you intend doing with the heron’s feathers?”
“Pluming my hat with them.”
“Why, it’s plumed already! and by far showier ones!”
“Showier they may be; but not prettier, nor so becoming. And certainly not to be esteemed as these; which I shall wear as souvenir of a pleasant time—the pleasantest of my life.”
There was a pleased expression in her eyes as she listened to what he said; still more when she saw what he did. This, to whip the hat from his head, pluck the panache of ostrich feathers from its aigrette and insert those of the heron in their place. Something he did further seemed also to give her gratification, though she artfully concealed it. Reproach on her lips, but delight in her heart, as she saw him tear the displaced plume into shreds, and toss them to the ground at his horse’s feet.
“How wasteful you are, Mr Trevor?” she exclaimed, reprovingly. “Those foreign feathers must have cost a great deal of money. What’s worse, you’ve spoiled the look of your hat! Besides, you forget that those now on it came from a conquered bird?”
“All the more appropriate for a plume to be worn by me.”
“Why so, sir?”
“Because of my being vanquished, too.”
“You vanquished, Mr Trevor! When? where? By whom?” she asked, at the same time mentally interrogating herself. Could he be alluding to that combat in which he received the wound brought with him to Hollymead, the story of which had leaked out, though not told by either combatant. Or, was he hinting at conquest of another kind?