"Did Ralph Penlogan still love her?"
She looked apprehensively right and left, and was half afraid lest her thoughts should take shape and reveal themselves to other people.
What would people think if they knew she had put such a question to herself? Had she forgotten that she was the daughter of Sir John Hamblyn?
No, she had not forgotten; but she was learning the truth that true worth is not in title, or name, or fortune; that neither coronet nor crown can make men; that fools clad in sables are fools still, and rogues in mansions are still rogues.
The love of a man like Ralph Penlogan was not a thing to resent. It was something to be proud of and to be grateful for.
She retired to rest that night with a strange feeling of wonder in her heart. She was still uncertain of herself.
"Suppose Ralph Penlogan still loved her, and suppose——" She hid her face in the bedclothes and blushed in spite of herself.
He was fearless, she knew, and unconventional, and had no respect for names, or titles, or pedigrees as such. Moreover, he was not the man to be discouraged by small obstacles or turned aside by feeble excuses, and if he chose to cross her path she could not very well avoid him. The place was comparatively small, the walks were few, and during this glorious weather she could not dream of remaining indoors.
She had encouraged him that afternoon by recognising him. She had smiled at him in her most gracious way; and so, of course, he would know that she had forgiven him for speaking to her as he had done when last they met. And if he should seek her out; if, in his impetuous way, he should tell her he loved her still; if he should ask for an answer, and for an immediate answer. If—if——
She was still wondering when she fell asleep.