He looked at her imperiously—half smiling, half frowning.
“Remember!—he is my friend!”
“I do remember,” he said drily. “I am not likely to forget.” Constance flushed, and proudly dropped the subject. He saw that he had wounded her, but he quietly accepted it. There was something in the little incident that made her more aware of his overbearing character than ever.
“If I married him,” she thought, “I should be his slave!”
Tea had been daintily spread for them under a birch-tree near the keeper’s lodge. The keeper’s wife served them with smiles and curtsies, and then discreetly disappeared. Falloden waited on Constance as a squire on his princess; and all round them lay the green encircling rampart of the wood. In the man’s every action, there was the homage of one who only keeps silence because the woman he loves imposes it. But Constance again felt that recurrent fear creeping over her. She had been a fool—a fool!
He escorted her to the gate of the wood where Joseph was waiting.
“And now for our next merry meeting?” he said, as he got down to tighten her stirrup which had stretched a little.
Constance hurriedly said she could not promise—there were so many engagements.
Falloden did not press her. But he held her hand when she gave it him.
“Are you angry with me?” he said, in a low voice, while his eyes mocked a little.