Audrey was quite willing to satisfy him. She had been there already, and had seen their cottage. She could tell him all about their two parlours, and the little garden running down to the beck. But Cyril's curiosity was insatiable; he wanted to know presently how she would employ herself and what books she would read.
'For you will have wet days,' he added—'saft days, I think they call them—and then time will hang heavily on your hands unless you have plenty of books.'
'Oh, Michael has seen to that,' she replied brightly.
Somehow, Michael's name was perpetually cropping up. 'My cousin and I mean to do that,' or 'Michael means to help me with that,' until Cyril's face grew slightly lugubrious.
True, he tried to console himself with the remembrance of Audrey's words that she and Geraldine looked upon Michael as a sort of brother; still, he never did quite approve of this sort of adopted relationship. It was always a mistake, he thought; and in time people found it out for themselves.
Of course he was Miss Ross's cousin—or, rather, her father's cousin—but even that did not explain matters comfortably to his mind; and when a man has a Victoria Cross, and is looked upon in the light of a hero, it is a little difficult for other men not to envy him.
Cyril began to feel less happy. The walk was nearly at an end, too. Some of the light and cheerfulness seemed to fade out of the landscape; a chill breath permeated the summer air.
But Audrey went on talking in her lively, girlish way. She was quite unconscious of the sombre tinge that had stolen over Cyril's thoughts.
'Yes, to-morrow we shall be more than a hundred miles away; and the next day you will be en route for Cornwall.'
'I suppose so.'