Uncomfortable, he murmured a gratified assent that sounded as false as he intended that it should.
She looked at him sideways as they moved on together. She spoke of hawking. Here was fine open country for the sport. A flight could be followed for miles in any direction, moving almost as directly along the ground as the birds moved in the air above. Yet sport that day had been provokingly sluggish, and quarries had been sought in vain. It would be the heat, she opined, which kept the birds under cover.
In silence he jogged beside her, letting her prate, until at last she too fell silent. Then, after a spell, with a furtive sidelong glance from under her long lashes, she asked him a question in a small voice.
'You are angry with me, Bellarion?'
He was startled, but recovered instantly. 'That were a presumption, madonna.'
'In you it might be a condescension. You are so aloof these days. You have avoided me as persistently as I have sought you.'
'Could I suppose you sought me?'
'You might have seen.'
'If I had not deemed it wiser not to look.'
She sighed a little. 'You make it plain that it is not in you to forgive.'