She was very handsome at that moment, and Rupert wondered that he had not noticed of late how exceedingly lovely she had grown, while there was a nameless something in her expressive face, and even in her attitude, that thrilled him strangely.
“Does that offend your young ladyship?” he questioned, laughing. “You are not so little after all, and I was unfortunate in my choice of an adjective; but you were such a tiny midget when I came here, eight years ago, that I have always regarded you as very petite.”
“But I am not—your sister; we are not related at all,” she murmured.
He started, and bent a puzzled look upon her. She was standing before him, with half-averted face, her darkly fringed lids almost touching her cheeks, her bosom heaving with the heavy pulsations of her heart.
“True,” he returned, in a constrained tone, “and you must pardon me if I have presumed too far; but you must understand, Lillian, that it has become a natural consequence for me to regard you almost in that light, since one cannot live so many years in a family without becoming strongly attached to its members. I had flattered myself, too, that I had won at least a little corner in the hearts of my friends here.”
“You have! you have! Oh, Rupert, I did not mean anything like that!” Lillian cried, in a distressed tone, and with visible agitation.
“Then what did you mean? I do not understand you,” the young man asked, and leaned forward to look into her downcast face.
Lillian lifted her great dark eyes to his for an instant, and his heart gave a startled bound at what he read in their dusky depths. Then the rich blood rushed in a crimson flood to her very brow, dyeing even her white neck with its rosy hue.
At that moment a door of the conservatory opened and shut, and the girl started guiltily from his side.
“There comes the gardener,” she said, with evident confusion, “and I must speak to him.”