“You would very soon tire of it,” she assured him, looking him straight in the face with her fine eyes. “Even our bright sun gives one fever, and our blue sky becomes so monotonous that one longs for the calm of a grey English day.”
“I would like to try it for a year or two,” he declared wistfully.
“Then why don’t you?”
He was silent, and their eyes met again.
“Because I am not my own master, Miss Morini,” was his low response. “My living, such as it is, lies here in England. I am the factotum of a man who has elevated money to be his god, and I am compelled to serve him in silence and without complaint because it happens to be my lot in life.”
“A rather unhappy and uncomfortable one, I should imagine,” she remarked, suddenly growing grave.
“At times, yes,” was his brief reply. He did not wish to burden her with his own disappointments and misfortunes. She knew what was his position, a mere secretary, and that was sufficient. What hope could he ever have of daring to aspire to her hand? He might stand as her friend, but become her lover, never!
And when, a week later, he called at Orton to wish her farewell, as his vacation was at an end and he was compelled to return to his chambers in the Temple, and to that room in Mr Morgan-Mason’s flat in Queen Anne’s Mansions, he looked in vain in her eyes for some sign of genuine regret. There was none. No, she too had realised that on account of his position love was forbidden him.
“We shall meet here again, I hope, Mr Macbean—next summer,” she exclaimed, laughing airily, as she gave him her small white hand.
“I hope so,” was his fervent reply in a low, meaning voice, as their hands clasped.