"You are so stiff, or something," murmured he; "not like the jolly little girl who used to ride with me in the Farwoods. Those were pleasant days, Cecil—at least, I thought so."
"You got very suddenly tired of them, however."
"That I didn't," exclaimed he. "I was obliged to go."
"It was a yachting excursion, wasn't it?" carelessly.
"Yes, ostensibly; I had business too. Do you know Cecil very nearly wrote to you. But then, I thought you wouldn't care to hear from me, and might think it a bore answering."
Cecil was silent. "Did you miss me, my child?"
She forgot her resolves, and met his eyes with a dark, soft look.
Bertie pressed her hand under the table, and for a moment they were oblivious of anything passing around.
"Sweet or dry, sir?" said the deep voice of the liveried [unreadable], for the second time of asking.
Du Meresq darted a searching glance at the man, who looked as stolid as the Serjeant in 'Our's.' No one could have guessed he was thinking what a piquante anecdote it would be to relate to his inamorata, the cook, over their supper-beer. Bertie gave a laughing but relieved glance at his neighbour, whose eyes were fixed on her plate. They both began simultaneously talking louder, with an exaggerated openness, on general topics. Mrs. Rolleston joined in.