The inn maid-servant, bringing in the lunch, saved him.
But his moment of confusion, so much greater than the occasion seemed to warrant, had jarred the smooth, impersonal nature of Miss Lutwyche's opinion of him. There had been so remarkable a look—almost of consternation—in the man's eyes as he faced her. She had been at some pains to expound the main principle of the Lee-Simmons system of drainage for isolated houses, which was her special fancy, and which she was most anxious to have him adopt; and it was certainly annoying to find that she had been speaking to deaf ears. But his curious expression when she had looked at him! He had seemed like one suddenly caught in the act—taken red-handed. What could the thought be which had absorbed his attention, and reddened his brown cheek?
She was so kind as to repeat her information while they sat at lunch together, and had no cause this time to complain of lack of attention. But his momentary lapse had occasioned in her a subtle change of mental attitude. She was, without knowing why, suddenly on her guard—all at once concerned with this man, about whom before she had not thought at all.
Of course she did not say this to herself. Like all deep-seated motions of the mind, it was spontaneous, unrealised. But it was there; and the man encountered it, felt it with his alarming sensitiveness where she was concerned; and by degrees there arose up within him a profound uneasiness, which made the simplest sentence an effort.
Melicent soon settled, in her positive way, what was wrong. She thought the Captain, being rich and eligible, was nervous of being tête-à-tête with his youthful lady architect. She spoke with elaborate ease and unconcern, determined to show him there was nothing to fear; but he seemed each moment more self-conscious.
There was, nevertheless, no doubt that he was interested—not only in the speaker, but in what she was saying. By the time lunch was over, he had practically decided upon the Lee-Simmons idea, and was eager to transport his architect to the scene of her enterprise at once. He went outside to the little rough plot of green before the inn to find the ostler; and urged by an impulse of such curiosity as she seldom felt, Melicent went to the window to watch him.
A few village children were at play upon the green; and one little girl, probably inspired by parents who hoped for some advantage from the rich man who was going to make his home among them, shyly approached him as he stood.
He had put his hands behind him, and forgotten himself in staring at the hill crowned by the Lone Ash, where he meant his fairy palace to arise. The little fair girl advanced diffidently, shyly holding out a big round bouquet of primroses, tightly tied together. He turned, looking down at her, half-amused; and Melicent thought that the big, fine man and the blushing child with her flowers, illumined by the crude spring sunshine, looked like the coloured supplement to a Christmas Number.
The Captain accepted the flowers, felt in his pocket for a penny, and turned back towards the inn door, with the intention of presenting the floral tribute to Miss Lutwyche.
Now, what was there in that action—what sudden thrill of memory—of recognition—of pain, like a sharp blow on a raw spot—darted to the brain of the girl who watched in the window?