The rain of the morning had left
the air chilly, and a wood fire burnt on the hearth. Its pleasant flame
gave an added touch of intimity to the little drawing-room, with its wild
flowers, its books, its water-colours, and its modest furnishings. After
the long struggle of his illness, and the excitement of the morning,
Faversham was both soothed and charmed. His whole nature relaxed;
happiness flowed in. Presently, on an impulse he could not resist, he
told her of the offer which had been made to him.
Lydia's embroidery dropped on her lap.
"Mr. Melrose's agent!" she repeated, in wonder. "He has offered you
that?"
"He has--on most generous terms. Shall I take it?"
She flushed a little, for the ardent deference in his eyes was not easy
to ignore. But she examined his news seriously--kindling over it.
"His _agent_--agent for his miserable, neglected property! Heavens, what
a chance!"
She looked at him, her soul in her face. Something warned him to be
cautious.
"You think it so neglected?"
"I know it: but ask Lord Tatham! He's chairman of some committee or
other--he'll tell you."
"But perhaps I shall have to fight Tatham? Suppose that turns out to be
my chief business?"
"Oh, no, you can't--you can't! He's too splendid--in all those things."
"He is of course the model youth," said Faversham dryly.
"Ah, but you can't hate him either!" cried Lydia, divining at once the
shade of depreciation. "He is the kindest, dearest fellow! I agree--it's
provoking not to be able to sniff at him--_such_ a Prince Charming--with
all the world at his feet.
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