"Had you arrived an hour sooner you would have seen Mrs. Ormonde. I have just seen her off by the 12.30 train. She has been paying us a farewell visit, and is gone to Lady Mary Vincent."
"Indeed! She will have her cup of pleasure running over there; they live in a flutter of gayety all day long."
Here De Burgh sprang to the ground and assisted Katherine to alight.
"Will you lunch with us?" she asked, an additional tinge of color mounting to her cheek; for she knew De Burgh was no favorite of Miss Payne, who was no doubt rejoicing at the prospect of repose and deliverance from their late guest, who generally managed to rub her hostess the wrong way.
"You are very kind. I shall be delighted."
While Katherine went ostensibly to put aside her hat—really to warn Miss Payne—De Burgh strolled into the drawing-room. How cool and fresh and sweet with abundant flowers it was! An air of refined homeliness about it, the work and books and music on the open piano, spoke of well-occupied repose. Its simplicity was graceful, and indicated the presence of a cultured woman.
De Burgh wandered to the window—a wide bay—and took from a table which stood in it a cabinet photograph of Katherine, taken about a year before. He was absorbed in contemplating it when she came in, and he made a step to meet her. "This is very good," he said. "Where was it taken?"
"In Florence."
"It is like"—looking intently at her, and then at the picture. "But you are changed in some indescribable way, changed since I saw you last, years ago—that is, a month—isn't it a month since you drove me from paradise?—but you don't remember."
"But, Mr. De Burgh, I did not drive you away. You got bored, and went away of your own free-will."