Norman de Vere, eagerly conning the papers she had left with him, was startled presently by a soft little tap at the door.
“Come in,” he said, and the door opened, admitting a lovely vision—Thea in a dress and hat of dark-blue velvet with pale-blue plumes sweeping her shoulders and mingling with the spun silk of her golden curls, her beautiful face bright, eager, smiling.
Norman’s heart leaped with a thrill that no sophistry could pronounce brotherly—a thrill that startled him with its keen pleasure.
“What, going out again—so soon? You said there was company!” he cried.
She came nearer and stood at the furthest corner of his writing-desk, her small, gray-gloved hand resting on the corner.
“Yes—the Bentleys,” she said. “They have come to take me to Orange Grove for a week. There is to be quite a gay party there. I expect I shall enjoy it very much.”
“No doubt,” he said with sudden stiffness. He had risen, and stood with one hand on the back of his chair, looking keenly into her face, which had gone crimson as she recognized her papers scattered about on his desk. “But,” he continued, reproachfully, “are you going to give up your riding-lessons so soon?”
“Oh, no! I spoke of that, and Cameron Bentley promised to take me every day.”
“Ah!” he laughed; but it was mirthless, and the tone was unconsciously bitter with which he added: “A most agreeable substitute for your elderly guardian, Sweetheart.”
“Oh, no; I do not think so,” Thea answered, sweetly. The frank, blue eyes looked at him a moment—almost tenderly, it seemed to him—then the long-fringed lashes fell, as she added: “I hope you will come to Orange Grove sometimes while I am there—if not, I must say good-bye for a week.”