It was Easter day, and she supposed he had come from Communion.
A little shiver passed through her, caused by the recollection of words she had heard, acts of which she had been a witness, in the chapel during the foregoing week--words and acts of emotion, of abandonment--love crying to love. A momentary thirst seized her--an instant's sense of privation, of longing, gone almost as soon as it had come.
"So this dance you are going to is on Thursday?" he said pleasantly.
"Yes, on Thursday, at eight. I shall go early. I have engaged a fly to take me to the farm--thank you!--and my cousins will see me home. I am obliged to you for the key. It will save my giving any trouble."
"If you did we should not grudge it," he said quietly.
She was silent for a few more steps, then she said:
"I quite understand, Mr. Helbeck, that you do not approve of my going. But I must judge for myself. The Masons are my own people. I am sorry they should have---- Well--I don't understand--but it seems you have reason to think badly of them."
He made no answer. She coloured angrily, then broke out, her words tumbling childishly over one another:
"There are a great many things said of Hubert that I don't believe he deserves! He has a great many good tastes--his music is wonderful. At any rate, he is my cousin; they are papa's only relations in the world. He would have been kind to Hubert; and he would have despised me if I turned my back on them because I was staying in a grand house with grand people!"
"Grand people!" said Helbeck, raising his eyebrows. "But I am sorry I led you to say these things, Miss Fountain. Excuse me--may I open this gate for you?"
She reached her own room as quickly as possible, and dropped upon the chair beside her dressing-table in a whirl of angry feeling. A small and heated face looked out upon her from the glass. But after the first instinctive moment she took no notice of it. With the mind's eye she still saw the figure she had just parted from, the noble poise of the head, thrown back on the broad shoulders, the black and greys of the hair, the clear penetrating glance--all the slight signs of age and austerity that had begun to filch away the Squire's youth. It was at least ten minutes before she could free herself enough from the unwelcome memories of her walk to find a vindictive pleasure in running hastily to look at her one white dress--all she had to wear at the Browhead dance.