"At all events," he says, "I must get my shooting things off. Much good I've done with 'em!"
So he goes into the house, and leaves her alone. But this chat together seems to have brightened her up somewhat; and with a careless and cheerful air she goes over to the flower borders and begins culling an assortment of various-hued blossoms. The evening is becoming cooler; she is not so much afraid of the sun's glare; it is a pleasant task; and she is singing, or humming, snatches of songs of the most heterogeneous character.
Then fill up a bumper!—what can I do less
Than drink to the health of my bonny Black Bess!
—this is the point at which she has arrived when she suddenly becomes silent, and for a second her face is suffused with a conscious colour. It is our young Doctor who has appeared on the gravel path. She does not rise from her stooping position; but she hurries with her work.
"You are going to decorate the dinner-table, I suppose?" he says, somewhat timidly.
"Yes," she answers, without raising her head. The fingers work nimbly enough: why so much hurry?
"You will take some down to the yacht, too?" he says. "Everything is quite ready now for the start to-morrow."
"Oh, yes!" she says. "And I think I have enough now for the table. I must go in."
"Miss Avon," he says; and she stops—with her eyes downcast. "I wanted to say a word to you. You have once or twice spoken about going away. I wanted to ask you—you won't think it is any rudeness. But if the reason was—if it was the presence of any one that was distasteful to you——"
"Oh, I hope no one will think that!" she answers, quickly; and for one second the soft, black, pathetic eyes meet his. "I am very happy to be amongst such good friends—too happy, I think—I, I must think of other things——"