He looked down at the girl who stood before
him, with eyes that were faintly quizzical. She was bending at the moment
to cut a tall Madonna lily from a sheaf that grew close to the path. At
his quiet words she started and the flower fell.
He stooped and picked it up, considered it for a moment, then slipped it
into the basket that was slung on her arm.
"Don't be agitated," he said, gently. "You needn't take me
seriously--unless you wish."
She turned a face of piteous entreaty towards him. She was trembling
uncontrollably. "Oh, please, Lord Wyverton," she said, earnestly,
"please, don't ask me! Don't ask me! I--I felt so sure you wouldn't."
"Did you?" he said. "Why?"
He looked at her with grave interest. He was a straight, well-made man;
but his kindest friends could not have called him anything but ugly, and
there were a good many who thought him formidable also. Nevertheless,
there was that about him--an honesty and a strength--which made up to a
very large extent for his lack of other attractions.
"Tell me why," he said.
"Oh, because you are so far above me," the girl said, with an effort.
"You must remember that. You can't help it. I have always known that you
were not in earnest."
"Have you?" said Lord Wyverton, smiling a little. "Have you? You seem to
have rather a high opinion of me, Miss Neville."
She turned back to her flowers.
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