Both were soon
bored; and Tatham would have hurried his departure, but for the hope
of Lydia. With that to fortify him, however, he sat on.
And at last she came. Mrs. Penfold, it will easily be imagined, entered
upon the scene, in a state of bewildered ravishment.
"She had never expected--she could not have believed--it was like a
fairy-tale--a _real_ fairy-tale--wasn't the house _too_ beautiful--Mr.
Melrose's _taste_!--and such _things_!" In the wake of this soft,
gesticulating whirlwind, followed Lydia, waiting patiently with her
bright and humorous look till her mother should give her the chance of a
word. Her gray dress, and white hat, her little white scarf, a trifle
old-fashioned, and the pansies at her belt seemed to Tatham's eager eyes
the very perfection of dress. He watched her keenly as she came in; the
kind look at Faversham; then the start--was it, of pity?--for his altered
aspect, the friendly greeting for himself; and all so sweet, so detached,
so composed. His heart sank, he could not have told why.
"I ought to have warned you of that hill!" she said, standing beside
Faversham, and looking down upon him.
"You couldn't know I was such a duffer!" laughed Faversham. "It wasn't
me--it was the bike. At least, they tell me so. As for me, everything,
from the moment I left you till I woke up here six weeks ago, is wiped
out. Did you finish your sketch? Were the press notices good?"
She smiled. "Did you see what they were?"
"Certainly.
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