"Not so shall I, sir," she made answer. "I shall never think of it other than with burning cheeks—unless it be with gratitude to your shrewdness which saved me."
"No more, I beg. It is a matter painful to you to dwell on. Let me exhort you to forget it. I have already done so."
"That is a sweet courtesy in you."
"I am compounded of sweet courtesy," he informed her modestly.
His lordship spoke of departure, renewing his offer to carry Mr. Caryll to town in his chaise. Meanwhile, Mr. Caryll was behaving curiously. He was tiptoeing towards the door, along the wall, where he was out of line with the keyhole. He reached it suddenly, and abruptly pulled it open. There was a squeal, and Mr. Green rolled forward into the room. Mr. Caryll kicked him out again before he could rise, and called Leduc to throw him outside. And that was the last they saw of Mr. Green at Maidstone.
They set out soon afterwards, Mr. Caryll travelling in his lordship's chaise, and Leduc following in his master's.
It was an hour or so after candle-lighting time when they reached Croydon, the country lying all white under a full moon that sailed in a clear, calm sky. His lordship swore that he would go no farther that night. The travelling fatigued him; indeed, for the last few miles of the journey he had been dozing in his corner of the carriage, conversation having long since been abandoned as too great an effort on so bad a road, which shook and jolted them beyond endurance. His lordship's chaise was of an old-fashioned pattern, and the springs far from what might have been desired or expected in a nobleman's conveyance.
They alighted at the "Bells." His lordship bespoke supper, invited Mr. Caryll to join them, and, what time the meal was preparing, went into a noisy doze in the parlor's best chair.
Mistress Winthrop sauntered out into the garden. The calm and fragrance of the night invited her. Alone with her thoughts, she paced the lawn a while, until her solitude was disturbed by the advent of Mr. Caryll. He, too, had need to think, and he had come out into the peace of the night to indulge his need. Seeing her, he made as if to withdraw again; but she perceived him, and called him to her side. He went most readily. Yet when he stood before her in an attitude of courteous deference, she was at a loss what she should say to him, or, rather, what words she should employ. At last, with a half-laugh of nervousness, "I am by nature very inquisitive, sir," she prefaced.
"I had already judged you to be an exceptional woman," Mr. Caryll commented softly.
She mused an instant. "Are you never serious?" she asked him.
"Is it worth while?" he counter-questioned, and, whether intent or accident, he let her see something of himself. "Is it even amusing—to be serious?"
"Is there in life nothing but amusement?"
"Oh, yes—but nothing so vital. I speak with knowledge. The gift of laughter has been my salvation."
"From what, sir?"
"Ah—who shall say that? My history and my rearing have been such that had I bowed before them, I had become the most gloomy, melancholy man that steps this gloomy, melancholy world. By now I might have found existence insupportable, and so—who knows? I might have set a term to it. But I had the wisdom to prefer laughter. Humanity is a delectable spectacle if we but have the gift to observe it in a dispassionate spirit. Such a gift have I cultivated. The squirming of the human worm is interesting to observe, and the practice of observing it has this advantage, that while we observe it we forget to squirm ourselves."
"The bitterness of your words belies their purport."
He shrugged and smiled. "But proves my contention. That I might explain myself, you made me for a moment serious, set me squirming in my turn."
She moved a little, and he fell into step beside her. A little while there was silence.
Presently—"You find me, no doubt, as amusing as any other of your human worms," said she.
"God forbid!" he answered soberly.
She laughed. "You make an exception in my case, then. That is a subtle flattery!"
"Have I not said that I had judged you to be an exceptional woman?"
"Exceptionally foolish, not a doubt."
"Exceptionally beautiful; exceptionally admirable," he corrected.
"A clumsy compliment, devoid of wit!"
"When we grow truthful, it may be forgiven us if we fall short of wit."
"That were an argument in favor of avoiding truth."
"Were it necessary," said he. "For truth is seldom so intrusive as to need avoiding. But we are straying. There was a score upon which you were inquisitive, you said; from which I take it that you sought knowledge at my hands. Pray seek it; I am a well, of knowledge."
"I desired to know—Nay, but I have asked you already. I desired to know did you deem me a very pitiful little fool?"
They had reached the privet hedge, and turned. They paused now before resuming their walk. He paused, also, before replying. Then:
"I should judge you wise in most things," he answered slowly, critically. "But in the matter to which I owe the blessing of having served you, I do not think you wise. Did you—do you love Lord Rotherby?"
"What if so?"
"After what you have learned, I should account you still less wise."
"You are impertinent, sir," she reproved him.
"Nay, most pertinent. Did you not ask me to sit in judgment upon this matter? And unless you confess to me, how am I to absolve you?"
"I did not crave your absolution. You take too much upon yourself."
"So said Lord Rotherby. You seem to have something in common when all is said."
She bit her lip in chagrin. They paced in silence to the lawn's end, and turned again. Then: "You treat me like a fool," she reproved him.
"How is that possible, when, already I think I love you."
She started from him, and stared at him for a long moment. "You insult me!" she cried angrily, conceiving that she understood his mind. "Do you think that because I may have committed a folly I have forfeited all claim to be respected—that I am a subject for insolent speeches?"
"You are illogical," said Mr. Caryll, the imperturbable. "I have told you that I love you. Should I insult the woman I have said I love?"
"You love me?" She looked at him, her face very white in the white moonlight, her lips parted, a kindling anger in her eyes. "Are you mad?"
"I a'n't sure. There have been moments when I have almost feared it. This is not one of them."
"You wish me to think you serious?" She laughed a thought stridently in her indignation. "I have known you just four hours," said she.
"Precisely the time I think I have loved you."
"You think?" she echoed scornfully. "Oh, you make that reservation! You are not quite sure?"
"Can we be sure of anything?" he deprecated.
"Of some things," she answered icily. "And I am sure of one—that I am beginning to understand you."
"I envy you. Since that is so, help me—of your charity!—to understand myself."
"Then understand yourself for an impudent, fleering coxcomb," she flung at him, and turned to leave him.
"That is not explanation," said Mr. Caryll thoughtfully. "It is mere abuse."
"What else do you deserve?" she asked him over her shoulder. "That you should have dared!" she withered him.
"To love you quite so suddenly?" he inquired, and misquoted: "'Whoever loved at all, that loved not at first sight?' Hortensia!"
"You have not the right to my name, sir."
"Yet I offer you the right to mine," he answered, with humble reproach.
"You shall be punished," she promised him, and in high dudgeon left him.
"Punished? Oh, cruel! Can you then be—
