'You have come--to beg my pardon, I hope?' she said.
The smile she bestowed on him was an April smile, the brighter for the tears that lurked behind it; but Soane did not know that, nor, had he known it, would it have availed him. He was utterly dazzled, conquered, subjugated by her beauty. 'Willingly,' he said. 'But for what?'
'Oh, for--everything!' she answered with supreme assurance.
'I ask your divinity's pardon for everything,' he said obediently.
'It is granted,' she answered. 'And--I shall see you to-morrow, Sir George?'
'To-morrow?' he said. 'Alas, no; I shall be away to-morrow.'
He had eyes; and the startling fashion in which the light died out of her face, and left it grey and colourless, was not lost on him. But her voice remained steady, almost indifferent. 'Oh!' she said, 'you are going?' And she raised her eyebrows.
'Yes,' he answered; 'I have to go to Estcombe.'
She tried to force a laugh, but failed. 'And you do not return? We shall not see you again?' she said.
'It lies with you,' he answered slowly. 'I am returning to-morrow evening by the Bath road. Will you come and meet me, Julia--say, as far as the Manton turning? It's on your favourite road. I know you stroll there every evening. I shall be there a little after five. If you come to-morrow, I shall know that, notwithstanding your hard words, you will take in hand the reforming of a rake--and a ruined rake, Julia. If you do not come--'