PART II
CHAPTER IX
'Is she out?'
The questioner was William Farrell, and the question was addressed to his cousin Hester, whom he had found sitting in the little upstairs drawing-room of the Rydal lodgings, partly knitting, but mostly thinking, to judge from her slowly moving needles, and her absent eyes fixed upon the garden outside the open window.
'She has gone down to the lake—it is good for her to be alone a bit.'
'You brought her up from Torquay?'
'I did. We slept in London, and arrived yesterday. Miss Cookson comes this evening.'
'Why doesn't she keep away?' said Farrell, impatiently.
He took a seat opposite his cousin. He was in riding-dress, and looked in splendid case. From his boyhood he had always been coupled in Hester's mind with the Biblical words—'ruddy and of a cheerful countenance'; and as he sat there flushed with air and exercise, they fitted him even better than usual. Yet there was modern subtlety too in his restless eyes, and mouth alternately sensitive and ironic.
Hester's needles began to ply a little faster. A spring wind came through the window, and stirred her grey hair.