"Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Miss Sinclair," said Doris, disregarding his protest. "Mr. Cameron, Miss Sinclair," she said, adding, "Mr. Cameron comes from Yorkshire."
Alice bowed and held out her hand, in her usual good-natured way.
"We thought you were a poor, tired Londoner," she remarked with a smile, "and lo! you come from the North."
"I live in Richmond now," Bernard remarked quietly. "I have a--position in a school there."
"Indeed?" Alice was regarding him critically. He was a gentleman, handsome, too, and he looked good. But he was also rather shabby: there was no doubt about that; and she did not think Doris looked particularly pleased to see him. There was an expression of apprehension in her eyes which Alice had never seen there before.
"No, no. We have only come over for the day."
Doris made no reply. She stopped the answer Alice was about to make by a beseeching look.
"We have not any time to spare for visitors," she said, rather lamely.
"Will you allow me to walk with you a little way?" he asked. "Or perhaps," he hesitated, looking at Alice uneasily--"perhaps you will sit here with me a little while? There is--is--room for three on this seat."
Alice good-naturedly came to his assistance. "Doris," she said, in her brisk, businesslike way, "sit down and have a chat with your friend while I go over there to the chrysanthemum house to look at the flowers. I do so love chrysanthemums."
"And so do I," said Doris quickly. "I will come too."
"Doris!" Bernard’s exclamation was pitiful.
Alice felt for him, but concluding Doris did not wish to be left, she said briskly, "We will all go there. Come on."
Accordingly they all went to look at the chrysanthemums, amongst which they talked mere commonplaces for a little while.
Bernard was miserably disappointed. Doris was uncomfortable and frightened--the shadow of her father’s sin seemed to rest over her, filling her with shame. She did not know whether Bernard was prosecuting her father or not, and feared that he might say something which would betray the wretched secret to Alice. Even if he regretted the way he shrank from her when hearing of her father’s misappropriation of his money, or if he wished, as seemed evident, to renew their former relations, she could not and would not ruin his life, as his mother had said she would ruin it by marrying him. Poor he was, and shabby. Not a detail of this escaped her--his worn clothes and baggy trousers touched her deeply; but at least he bore an unblemished and honourable name. Was she to smirch it? Was she to bring to him, as his mother had said, a dowry of shame? No, no. His mother’s words were still ringing in her ears.