She looked at him, dry-eyed, but with a strained look of sorrow
strangely altering her girlish face.
"You must be very unhappy," she said.
"Not at all," he assured her. "I am one of those fortunate persons who
have outlived happiness and unhappiness. I have nothing to do but
live--and pay off a few little debts."
He rose directly afterwards, and she walked with him out to the
gardens whence a short cut led to the village.
"I have not tried again to make you change your mind," he said as they
stood for a moment on the terrace. "If my wishes have any weight with
you, I trust that you will do nothing without consulting Mr.
Pengarth."
"And you--" she faltered, "are you--never in London? Sha'n't I see you
again any time?"
"If you care to, by all means," he answered. "Tell Mr. Pengarth to let
me have your address. Goodbye! Thank you for taking care of my
treasures so well."
She held his cold hand in hers and suddenly raised it to her lips.
Then she turned away and hurried indoors.
Wingrave stood still for a moment and gazed at his hand through the
darkness as though the ghosts of dead things had flitted out from the
dark laurel shrubs. Then he laughed quietly to himself.
SPREADING THE NETS
"By the bye," the Marchioness asked him, "have you a Christian name?"
"Sorry," Wingrave answered, "if I ever had, I've forgotten it."
"Then I must call you Wingrave," she remarked.
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