And so he sat there dreaming, and fighting with his dreams, until his tobacco “gave out,” and until, shaking himself together, he summoned a supreme effort to help him on his road.
“It won’t do to be caught skulking here,” he thought.
The soft white shingle drawn from the brown-black waters of the lake muffle the sound of approaching wheels, and, ere he can return to a coign of vantage, the phaeton flashes past.
I have already stated that my hero was a young gentleman of warm temper, great energy, and prone to sudden impulses and unconsidered actions, and on this occasion he was true to his nature, for he shouted “Stop!” with the authoritative tone of a post-captain on a quarter-deck.
Miss Jyvecote pulled up.
The artist, glowing with a fierce excitement, plunged down the road and came up to the vehicle.
“Miss Jyvecote,” he pants, his handsome face flushed, his eyes flashing, “I don’t want you to think me a brute. I do not know why I acted so rudely this morning. I left Monamullin on purpose to come and visit you. Father Maurice says that open confession is good for the soul. You have it now. Do, please do forgive me.”
“Hand and glove,” she exclaims, holding out her coquettishly-gloved hand.
He jumped into the back seat, and, in a flutter of joyous commotion, was whirled to the grand entrance of the castle.
“You must first come and see my picture, Mr. Brown,” exclaimed Miss Jyvecote, leading the way to the turret chamber.