He had been sitting behind the rock where, screened by it and the growth of sumac, he had been idly gazing into the depths below, for the road just there ran along the edge of an almost perpendicular precipice.
He had seen Clifford approaching, although he was himself unseen, but he had had no intention of making his presence known, until our hero’s eloquent outburst fell upon his ears, whereupon he became irritated beyond measure. He was dressed in the height of style—in an immaculate suit of white linen, and he carried a cane having an elaborately carved ivory head.
He came around into the road and stood there looking up into Clifford’s face with a derisive smile. Clifford colored vividly at his manner of addressing him, but quickly recovering himself, he courteously returned:
“Ah! good afternoon, Mr. Wentworth. Yes, I am in love with these grand mountains, but I had no idea that I was rhapsodizing before an audience. It has been a warm day,” he concluded, and drew up his bridle preparatory to moving on, when his companion detained him.
“Wait a minute, Faxon,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to see you ever since class-day, but no one could tell me where to find you. It’s about that ring, you know; I’m dying to know just how you came by it.”
“It was a gift, Mr. Wentworth,” Clifford briefly replied.
“So you said before, but who gave it to you?” demanded Philip, with a frown.
“I cannot tell you.”
“Hang it all! don’t be so deucedly secretive,” was the impatient retort. “Was it given to you by a lady?”