What did the speech mean? Did it really bear the intimation that he could not in truth deny it? Something like a tremor, with that dark and weird pine-walk within sight, crept over me. Mr. Chandos leaned from the window, plucked a white rose, and put it into my hand.
"There," he said, "that's better than talking of ghosts. And, Miss Hereford—keep your curtains above closed after dusk: I don't like to be watched when I go out there."
He rang the bell for lights and tea. Ah, that rose, that rose! Does anybody, reading this, remember receiving one from a beloved hand? Had it been a flower of Paradise it could not have borne for me a greater charm. The skies were brighter, the coming night was sweeter, the whole atmosphere seemed impregnated with a bliss, not of this world. My heart was wild with happiness; the rose was worth more than Golconda's costliest diamonds. I have it still. I shall keep it for ever.
"And now for a cup of tea, if you'll give me one, Miss Hereford."
I turned from the window, the rose held carelessly in my fingers, and put it down, as of no moment, beside the tray. Afterwards he stayed talking to me a little while, and then rose to leave for the evening.
"I wish I could stay longer; it is very lonely for you," he said, as he shook hands. "But my mother feels lonely too; and so—I must divide myself as I best may."
"Is not Lady Chandos better?" I asked, interrupting his light laugh.
"Some days she is. Not much on the whole."
"And you, sir?"
I suppose I looked at him wistfully, for he put his hand for a moment on my head, and bent his kind face.