“Where is he now?” she asked suddenly, after a little pause.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied Philip, carelessly. “Come—surely we have something better to talk about than cousin Ogledon. See—the moon is rising—the moon that calls to lovers, all the world over, to worship him, and swear by him. What shall I swear to you, dear Madge?”
“Swear first of all,” she said, still with that note of anxiety in her voice—“swear that you will have as little as possible to do with that man. Ah—do let me speak”—this as he was about to interrupt her—“I know, only too well, that I have reason for my anxiety. Come—if you love me, Dandy dear—promise me that you will have as little——”
“Indeed—I’ll promise you that, with a light heart,” exclaimed Philip. And indeed he had small desire to have anything at all to do with Mr. Ogledon.
“Thank you, dear boy—thank you!” exclaimed, gratefully. “That’s quite like that newer, better self, which you promised I should see in you. There”—she bent forward, and kissed him lightly—“that in token that the matter is ended between us. Now—what shall we do? The moon is rising, as you say, and I don’t want to go inside yet; Miss Vint plays propriety, and never understands when she is in the way.”
“We certainly don’t want Miss Vint,” said Philip, with a laugh. “Come, my sweetheart—let us ramble here, for a little time, at least—and talk.”
After pacing up and down the garden once or twice, they stopped, side by side, at a little gate which opened from the further corner of its somewhat limited extent; as the girl laid her hand upon it, Philip inwardly wondered where it led. She swung it open, quite as a matter of course, and as though that had been a favourite walk of her own and her lover; and they passed through, into a sort of little plantation. The moon was high, and the sky clear; their own shadows, and those of the trees, were sharp and distinct upon the ground. Still almost in silence, save for an occasional word, they passed on, side by side, until the gate was far behind them.
A thought had been growing in Philip Chater’s mind while they walked; and he suddenly put it into words.
“You have some reason—other than the mere instinct of which you speak—for disliking Ogledon so much.” He said it slowly, having been at some pains to work the thing out in his mind.
“I thought we had done with the matter, and were not to speak of it again?” she said.