“It is your eyes, I think,” he said. “They were always nice, sweet, honest eyes, but now something else has come into them. What is it?”
“Guess,” whispered Mary. “I don’t think it was there this morning.”
“It wasn’t your beauty I ever thought the most of,” he said. “It reminds me of something I read the other day, that when a man does And his ideal it is sure ‘not to wear the face he fancies.’ But I have got it all, face too!”
“And now,” said Mary, “please go away. I am sure Mrs Greville is ready, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
Mr Cheviott’s countenance fell.
“Mayn’t I come with you to meet her? Won’t you tell her?” he said.
“Not before you!” said Mary, laughing. “But I will tell her—I should like to tell some one,” she added, girlishly.
“And when can I see you?”
“To-morrow morning. Come to Uxley early if you can. I am not leaving till the afternoon. And then we can fix about—about your going to see them at Bournemouth, and all that.”
“But I would like to tell some one, too, this very minute, at once, and I have no one. What shall I do?” he said, ruefully.