“Funny little souls!” Mildmay said, looking after them; then fearing he might have offended his hostess, and run the risk of driving her back into her former hostility, he said something hastily about the garden, which, of course, was the safest thing to do.
“Yes, it is a nice garden,” said Cicely; “at least, you will be able to make it very nice. We have never taken enough trouble with it, or spent enough money upon it, which means the same thing. You are very fond of the country, Mr. Mildmay?”
“Am I?” he said. “I really did not know.”
“Of country amusements, then—riding, and that sort of thing? We are quite near the race-ground, and this, I believe, is a very good hunting country.”
“But these are not clerical amusements, are they?” he said, laughing; “not the things one would choose a parish for?”
“No; certainly papa takes no interest in them: but then he is old; he does not care for amusement at all.”
“And why should you think amusement is my great object? Do I look so utterly frivolous?” said Mildmay, piqued.
“Nay,” said Cicely, “I don’t know you well enough to tell how you look. I only thought perhaps you had some reason for choosing Brentburn out of all the world; perhaps love of the country, as I said; or love for—something. It could not be croquet—which is the chief thing in summer—for that you could have anywhere,” she added, with a nervous little laugh.
“I hope, Miss St. John, there are other motives——”
“Oh yes, many others. You might be going to be married, which people say is a very common reason; but indeed you must not think I am prying. It was only—curiosity. If you had not some object,” said Cicely, looking at him with a wistful glance, “you would never leave Oxford, where there is society and books and everything any one can desire, to come here.”