“Little coquette! She will not even spare her elderly guardian,” he thought, half bitterly, then aloud: “Sweetheart, you seem in a capricious mood to-day. Why are you here alone? Where are all your lovers?”
“I was tired of everybody. I stole out to be alone.”
“And I am intruding on you. I beg your pardon. I will go,” turning from her hastily.
“Oh, please don’t!” She put an entreating little hand on his coat-sleeve, and he turned back.
“If you are not in a hurry, please stay awhile and tell me how dear Mrs. de Vere is. Miss Bentley would not give me a chance to ask you yesterday,” she said, sweetly.
He sat down by her on the low garden-seat, and there was silence for a minute between them. The southern air was soft and balmy, although it was January, and some long-stemmed roses nodded on tall bushes behind them, making a fitting background for her delicate, spirited beauty.
Finding that he did not speak, she said:
“Your mother is well, I hope?”
“Quite well. She sent her love.”
“You must give her mine in return. Does she miss me?”