"You are too good to the children," says Brandolin, still with restraint. Her eyes open with increased surprise. She has never seen his manner, usually so easy, nonchalant, and unstudied, altered before.
"He must have heard bad news," she thinks, but says nothing, and keeps her book open.
Brandolin stands near, silent and absorbed. He is musing what worlds he would give, if he had them, to know whether the story is true! He longs passionately to ask her in plain words, but it would be too brutal and too rude; he has not known her long enough to be able to presume to do so.
He watches the sunshine fall through the larch boughs on to her hands in their long loose gloves and touch the pearls which she always wears at her throat.
"How very much he is unlike himself!" she thinks; she misses his spontaneous and picturesque eloquence, his warm abandon of manner, his caressing deference of tone. At that moment there is a gleam of white between the trees, a sound of voices in the distance.
The family party are returning from church. The dogs jump up and wag their tails and bark their welcome. The Babe is dashing on in advance. There is an end of their brief tête-à-tête; he passionately regrets the loss of it, though he is not sure of what he would have said in it.
"Always together!" says Dulcia Waverley, in a whisper, to Usk, as she sees them. "Does he know that he succeeds Lord Gervase, do you think?"
"How should I know?" says Usk; "and Dolly says there was nothing between her and Gervase,—nothing; at least it was all in honor, as the French say."
"Oh, of course," agrees Lady Waverley, with her plaintive eyes gazing dreamily down the aisle of larch-trees. The children have run on to Madame Sabaroff.
"Where is Alan?" thinks Dolly Usk, angrily, on seeing Brandolin.