He had been very cautious in his interviews with Maud. He had said or done nothing which could give her a hint of his aim. He had been good-humouredly and sedulously careful to do all she wished as she wished it done. He had taken her and Mrs. Grant for drives in quiet country places, where the freshness of their mourning would be free from observation and remark. On these occasions, although Maud occupied the seat of honour, he was more attentive to her companion.
But the time for winning had a limit, and at the end of the first month he gradually changed his manner.
When they met he gazed into her eyes longer and with more interest than of yore. He pressed her hand more warmly, and retained it longer. His voice, when he spoke to her, was lower and softer. His solicitude for her health gained daily, and when they walked out into the grounds together, he chose for her the easiest ways, and showed his anxiety that her feet should not touch the wet grass, or the ragged brambles her face or figure.
He prolonged his visits. He always found an excuse for getting her out into the grounds, or into some room where for a time they might be alone. When parting from her, he would say, if no one was by:
"I am sorry I must leave now. I am sorry I am obliged to go back to Daneford and that lonely Manor. I wish I could stay here."
And she would say:
"I am sure, if you will stay, Mrs. Grant will make you comfortable. But you lose too much time for us."
He would answer:
"No. Oh no, dear Miss Midharst. The only pleasant time I have now is when I am here, in your society, trying to make this place better for you."
Then he would say good-bye impressively, and move off with a dejected look, and turn round, when he had taken a few paces, and wave his hand to her in a way that said: "Do not grieve because I am sad. I am nobody."