delicate."
"My friend?" staring at him in marked surprise, while a faint deep rose flush illumines her cheek, making one forget how white and fragile she appeared a moment since.
"Yes. I mean Mrs. Arlington, our tenant. I am Cyril Chetwoode," raising his hat. "I hope the air here will do her good."
He is talking against time, but she is too much occupied to notice it.
"I hope it will," she replies, calmly, studying her roses attentively, while the faintest suspicion of a smile grows and trembles at the corner of her mobile lips.
"You are her sister, perhaps?" asks Cyril, the extreme deference of his whole manner taking from the rudeness of his questioning.
"No – not her sister."
"Her friend?"
"Yes. Her dearest friend," replies Incognita, slowly, after a pause, and a closer, more prolonged examination of her roses; while again the curious half-suppressed smile lights up her face. There are few things prettier on a pretty face than an irrepressible smile.
"She is fortunate in possessing such a friend," says Cyril, softly; then with some haste, as though anxious to cover his last remark, "My brother did not see you when he called?"
"Did he say so?"
"No. He merely mentioned having seen only Mrs. Arlington. I do not think he is aware of your existence."
"I think he is. I have had the pleasure of speaking with Sir Guy."
"Indeed!" says Cyril, and instantly tells himself he would not have suspected Guy of so much slyness. "Probably it was some day since – you met him – "
"No, it was on that one occasion when he called here."
"I dare say I misunderstood," says Cyril, "but I certainly thought he said he had seen only Mrs. Arlington."
"Well?"
"Well?"
"I am Mrs. Arlington!"
"What!" says Cyril, with exaggerated surprise, – and a moment later is shocked at the vehemence of his own manner. "I beg your pardon, I am sure," he says, contritely; "there is no reason why it should not be so, but you seem so – I had no idea you wore a – that is – I mean I did not think you were married."
"You had no idea I was a widow," corrects Mrs. Arlington, coldly. "I do not see why you need apologize. On the contrary, I consider you have paid me a compliment. I am glad I do not look the character. Good-morning, sir; I have detained you too long already."
"It is I who have detained you, madam," says Cyril, speaking coldly also, being a little vexed at the tone she has employed toward him, feeling it to be undeserved. "I fear I have been unhappy enough to err twice this morning, – though I trust you will see – unwittingly." He accompanies this speech with a glance so full of entreaty and a mute desire for friendship as must go straight to the heart of any true woman; after which, being a wise young man, he attempts no further remonstrance, but lifts his hat, and walks away gloomily toward his home.
Mrs. Arlington, who is not proof against so much reproachful humility, lifts her head, sees the dejected manner of his departure, and is greatly struck by it. She makes one step forward; checks herself; opens her lips as though to speak; checks herself again; and finally, with a little impatient sigh, turns and walks off gloomily toward her home.
CHAPTER VIII
"And sang, with much simplicity, – a merit
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it."
—Don Juan.
The rain is beating regularly, persistently, against the window-panes; there is no hope of wandering afield this evening. A sullen summer shower, without a smile in it, is deluging gardens and lawns, tender flowers and graveled walks, and is blotting out angrily all the glories of the landscape.
It is half-past four o'clock. Lady Chetwoode is sitting in the library reclining in the coziest arm-chair the room contains, with her knitting as usual in her hands. She disdains all newer, lighter modes of passing the time, and knits diligently all day long for her poor.
Lilian is standing at the melancholy window, counting the diminutive lakes and toy pools forming in the walk outside. As she looks, a laurel leaf, blown from the nearest shrubbery, falls into a fairy river, and floats along in its current like a sedate and sturdy boat, with a small snail for cargo, that clings to it bravely for dear life.
Presently a stick, that to Lilian's idle fancy resolves itself into an iron-clad, runs down the poor little skiff, causing it to founder with all hands on board.
At this heart-rending moment John enters with a tea-tray, and, drawing a small table before Lady Chetwoode, lays it thereon. Her ladyship, with a sigh, prepares to put away her beloved knitting, hesitates, and then is lost in so far that she elects to finish that most mysterious of all things, the rounding of the heel of her socks, before pouring out the tea. Old James Murland will be expecting these good gray socks by the end of the week, and old James Murland must not be disappointed.
"Lady Chetwoode," says Lilian, with soft hesitation, "I want to ask you a question."
"Do you, dear? Then ask it."
"But it is a very odd question, and perhaps you will be angry."
"I don't think I shall," says Lady Chetwoode ("One, two, three, four," etc.)
"Well, then, I like you so much – I love you so much," corrects Lilian, earnestly, "that, if you don't mind, I should like to call you some name a little less formal than Lady Chetwoode. Do you mind?"
Her ladyship lays down her knitting and looks amused.
"It seems no one cares to give me my title," she says. "Mabel, my late ward, was hardly here three days when she made a request similar to yours. She always called me 'Auntie.' Florence calls me, of course, 'Aunt Anne;' but Mabel always called me 'Auntie.'"
"Ah! that was prettier. May I call you 'Auntie' too? 'Auntie Nannie,' – I think that a dear little name, and just suited to you."
"Call me anything you like, darling," says Lady Chetwoode, kissing the girl's soft, flushed cheek.
Here the door opens to admit Sir Guy and Cyril, who are driven to desperation and afternoon tea by the incivility of the weather.
"The mother and Lilian spooning," says Cyril. "I verily believe women, when alone, kiss each other for want of something better."
"I have been laughing at Lilian," says Lady Chetwoode: "she, like Mabel, cannot be happy unless she finds for me a pet name. So I am to be 'Auntie' to her too."
"I am glad it is not to be 'Aunt Anne,' like Florence," says Cyril, with a distasteful shrug; "that way of addressing you always grates upon my ear."
"By the bye, that reminds me," says Lady Chetwoode, struggling vainly in her pocket to bring to light something that isn't there, "Florence is coming home next week. I had a letter from her this morning telling me so, but I forgot all about it till now."
"You don't say so!" says Cyril, in a tone of unaffected dismay.
Now, when one hears an unknown name mentioned frequently in conversation,
