"I am a very poor creature now-a-days," I said, with a miserable attempt to speak lightly. "People who go to picnics ought to be good walkers, and have a fund of animal spirits. I am not gay enough to join your party, Mr. Greystock."
Again there was a softening in his voice, and an indescribable look of tenderness in his face which made him far handsomer than I had ever seen him before.
"Does one only want gay companions?" he asked. "I think not. For my own part, I turn with relief to some one who is not gay, some one who can sympathise with my own gravity of temperament. Take pity on me then, Mrs. Hepburne, and spare me a few hours of your society next Thursday."
Still I hesitated, wondering why he pressed the point.
"The air will do you good," he continued, earnestly. "And I will take care that you are not bored or persecuted in any way. Then, too, there are Ronald's wishes to be considered: he says you are shutting yourself up too much."
"Did he say that?" I demanded, eagerly.
"Indeed he did," Those inscrutable dark eyes were looking deep into mine. "Is it not natural that he should be anxious about his wife's health and spirits, and natural, too, that he should sometimes speak his thoughts to till old friend?"
I reflected for a moment.
William Greystock's words sounded kind and reasonable, and I was secretly glad to know that Ronald had displayed some anxiety on my account.
"I will come to your picnic, Mr. Greystock," I said at last. "It is kind of you to take an interest in me. Perhaps my husband is right; I have given way too much to depression, and have stayed too long in the house."