"If that is the worst," she said gently, "I am not at all frightened.
You know that it is my profession to write about men and women. I belong to a world of worn-out types, and to meet any one different is quite a luxury."
"The worst!" A sudden fear sent an icy coldness shivering through his veins. His heart seemed to stop beating, his cheeks were blanched.
The worst of him. He had not told her that he was a robber, that the foundation of his fortunes was a lie; that there lived a man who might bring all this great triumph of his shattered and crumbling about his ears. A pa.s.sionate fear lest she might ever knew of these things was born in his heart at that moment, never altogether to leave him.
The sound of a footstep close at hand made them both turn their heads.
Along the winding path came Da Souza, with an ugly smirk upon his white face, smoking a cigar whose odour seemed to poison the air. Trent turned upon him with a look of thunder.
"What do you want here, Da Souza?" he asked fiercely.
Da Souza held up the palms of his hands.
"I was strolling about," he said, "and I saw you through the trees. I did not know that you were so pleasantly engaged," he added, with a wave of his hat to the girl, "or I would not have intruded."
Trent kicked open the little iron gate which led into the garden beyond.
"Well, get out, and don"t come here again," he said shortly. "There"s plenty of room for you to wander about and poison the air with those abominable cigars of yours without coming here."
Da Souza replaced his hat upon his head. "The cigars, my friend, are excellent. We cannot all smoke the tobacco of a millionaire, can we, miss?"
The girl, who was making some notes in her book, continued her work without the slightest appearance of having heard him.
Da Souza snorted, but at that moment he felt a grip like iron upon his shoulder, and deemed retreat expedient.
"If you don"t go without another word," came a hot whisper in his ear, "I"ll throw you into the horse-pond."
He went swiftly, ungracious, scowling. Trent returned to the girl. She looked up at him and closed her book.
"You must change your friends," she said gravely. "What a horrible man!"
"He is a beast," Trent answered, "and go he shall. I would to Heaven that I had never seen him."
She rose, slipped her note-book into her pocket, and drew on her gloves.
"I have taken up quite enough of your time," she said. "I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Trent, for all you have told me. It has been most interesting."
She held out her hand, and the touch of it sent his heart beating with a most unusual emotion. He was aghast at the idea of her imminent departure. He realised that, when she pa.s.sed out of his gate, she pa.s.sed into a world where she would be hopelessly lost to him, so he took his courage into his hands, and was very bold indeed.
"You have not told me your name," he reminded her.
She laughed lightly.
"How very unprofessional of me! I ought to have given you a card! For all you know I may be an impostor, indulging an unpardonable curiosity.
My name is Wendermott--Ernestine Wendermott."
He repeated it after her.
"Thank you," he said. "I am beginning to think of some more things which I might have told you."
"Why, I should have to write a novel then to get them all in," she said.
"I am sure you have given me all the material I need here."
"I am going," he said abruptly, "to ask you something very strange and very presumptuous!"
She looked at him in surprise, scarcely understanding what he could mean.
"May I come and see you some time?"
The earnestness of his gaze and the intense anxiety of his tone almost disconcerted her. He was obviously very much in earnest, and she had found him far from uninteresting.
"By all means," she answered pleasantly, "if you care to. I have a little flat in Culpole Street--No. 81. You must come and have tea with me one afternoon."
"Thank you," he said simply, with a sigh of immense relief.
He walked with her to the gate, and they talked about rhododendrons.
Then he watched her till she became a speck in the dusty road--she had refused a carriage, and he had had tact enough not to press any hospitality upon her.
"His little girl!" he murmured. "Monty"s little girl!"
CHAPTER XVI
Ernestine Wendermott travelled back to London in much discomfort, being the eleventh occupant of a third-cla.s.s carriage in a particularly unpunctual and dilatory train. Arrived at Waterloo, she shook out her skirts with a little gesture of relief and started off to walk to the Strand. Half-way across the bridge she came face to face with a tall, good-looking young man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He stopped short as he recognised her, dropped his eyegla.s.s, and uttered a little exclamation of pleasure.
"Ernestine, by all that"s delightful! I am in luck to-day!"
She smiled slightly and gave him her hand, but it was evident that this meeting was not wholly agreeable to her.
"I don"t quite see where the luck comes in," she answered. "I have no time to waste talking to you now. I am in a hurry."
"You will allow me," he said hopefully, "to walk a little way with you?"
"I am not able to prevent it--if you think it worth while," she answered.
He looked down--he was by her side now--in good-humoured protest.
"Come, Ernestine," he said, "you mustn"t bear malice against me. Perhaps I was a little hasty when I spoke so strongly about your work. I don"t like your doing it and never shall like it, but I"ve said all I want to.
You won"t let it divide us altogether, will you?"
"For the present," she answered, "it occupies the whole of my time, and the whole of my thoughts."
"To the utter exclusion, I suppose," he remarked, "of me?"
She laughed gaily.
"My dear Cecil! when have I ever led you to suppose for a moment that I have ever wasted any time thinking of you?"