She relapsed into silence again on the homeward way, and it was Mayne who broke it.
“Let’s sit down here a minute, it’s so jolly!” he suggested, as they came to an easy stile. “We needn’t gallop back for Miss Burton’s sake. She’s a host in herself.”
Cecily laughed shortly. “Don’t you admire her? She’s very handsome.”
Mayne shrugged his shoulders, as he threw himself down on the grass close to the low step on which she was seated. Cecily smiled. She felt childishly comforted by the contemptuous action.
The long meadow-grass was starred with daisies, and jewelled with tall spikes of rose-red sorrel. The field sloped to a full, slow stream, which lazily stirred tufts of forget-me-nots in its passing. On the farther bank, the cattle swished indolent tails as they crowded under the shade of the willows, or stood knee-deep in the water.
“What a peaceful place!” said Mayne, suddenly. “It makes a funny sort of contrast to one or two scenes I remember. May I smoke? It’s pretty,” he went on, beginning to fill his pipe, “but somehow, as a setting, it doesn’t suit you.”
Cecily started a little. There was nothing in the remark, but she knew that Mayne meant to talk, in the sense of the word, and she did not know whether she was glad or sorry. It was, perhaps, a tribute to his personality that the idea of preventing him did not even occur to her. One did not try to stop Mayne when he expressed the intention of doing anything.
“That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” she returned, smiling. “Why doesn’t a pretty place suit me?”
“No room for your wings.”
“My dear Dick, you’re not going to tell me I’m an angel!” she exclaimed, still clinging to the fringe of conventional repartee.