And she had handled them with such delicacy, such sweetness;
such frankness too, in return as to her own "ideas," those stubborn
intractable ideas, which made him frown to think of. Yet all the time--he
knew it--there had been no flirting on her part. Never had she given him
the smallest ground to think her in love with him. On the contrary, she
had maintained between them for all her gentleness, from beginning to
end, that soft, intangible barrier which at once checked and challenged
him.
Passion ran high in him. And, moreover, he was beginning to be more than
vaguely jealous. He had seen for himself how much there was in common
between her and Faversham; during the last fortnight he had met Faversham
at the cottage on several occasions; and there had been references to
other visits from the new agent. He understood perfectly that Lydia was
broadly, humanly interested in the man's task: the poet, the enthusiast
in her was stirred by what he might do, if he would, for the humble folk
she loved. But still, there they were--meeting constantly. "And he can
talk to her about all the things I can't!"
His earlier optimism had quite passed by now; probably, though
unconsciously, under the influence of Lydia's nascent friendship
with Faversham. There had sprung up in him instead a constant agitation
and disquiet that could no longer be controlled. No help--but rather
danger--lay in waiting....
Delorme had now turned away from Lydia to his hostess, and Lydia was
talking to Squire Andover on her other side, a jolly old boy, with a
gracious, absent look, who inclined his head to her paternally.
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