She was not a gallant's woman, nor did she desire to be touched by De Rothan. Her instincts were fastidious in such matters.
He smiled at her roguishly.
"What a proud young gentlewoman. But you have the right. Beauty is privileged. Pride in a plain woman is like fine wine in a pewter pot."
Her aloofness pleased him. He followed her up the steps, scanning her figure, and noticing the comely way her neck curved where it rose from between her shoulders.
"Mr. Durrell, your daughter is a very great lady. She is too proud to touch my fingers."
He laughed and swaggered, and it was in his swagger that the vulgar blood of the Irish adventurer showed itself. Durrell had a sullen, preoccupied look. He had been disappointed of great events.
"Where have you been, Nance?"
"For a ramble."
"Ah."
His eyes searched her face, and Nance caught a questioning distrust. Youth resents suspiciousness. That momentary glance was seized on and remembered.