“I do not understand what you mean,” replied Amanda, with dignity.

“A flat, my child, is one who is easily duped.”

“Well, I don’t think you that, at all events! In fact, quite the reverse, because first you duped me, and then you duped all these people! And if you try to carry me off by force tomorrow, I shall tell Lord Brancaster just how you have deceived him.”

“I hope you won’t!” he said. “I fear his lordship, whose mind is not elastic, wouldn’t believe a word of your story, and then what a pickle we should be in!”

“It was abominable of you to have brought me here!”

“Yes, I fancy that opinion is shared by several other members of the party,” he observed. “At least I won’t aggravate the offence by leaving you here! No, don’t begin scolding again! I know exactly what’s in your foolish head: you are bent on giving me the slip, and you know you cannot do it while my eye is upon you, and so you hope to make me believe that you are willing to remain here, like the good little girl you most emphatically are not. But as soon as my back is turned you would be off—and you may make up your mind to this, Amanda: I may wish you at Jericho, but I am not going to let you escape from me! Yes, I’m well aware that I am a deceiver, an abductor, and wholly contemptible, but really you will be much better off with me than seeking menial employment, for which, believe me, you are not in the least suited! I’ll let you scold tomorrow as much as you choose, but in the meantime come back into the drawing-room, and play casino!”

“I won’t!” she declared, on any angry sob. “You may tell that odious Lady Widmore that I have the headache! And though you may think you have me in your power, you will find that you have not, and at all events you can’t force me to play casino, or any other horrid game.”

With these words, she retired to a stone seat at the far end of the terrace, and sat down with her face averted. Sir Gareth, well aware of the folly of arguing with damsels in a passion of fury, left her to sulk herself back to good humour, and strolled into the house again to make her apologies. He also offered to deputize for her at the card-table, but the Earl said hastily: “Pooh! nonsense! no one wants to play a rubbishy game of casino! Come along to the library: I daresay we shall find my brother there!” He then drew Sir Gareth out of the room, and was just wondering where the devil Hester had taken herself off to, and why the wretched girl could never be where she was wanted, when she came out of the morning-room on the opposite side of the hall, looking harassed, and saying in a distracted way that she could not imagine what the children had done with the cards.

At any other time the children’s fond grandparent would have favoured her with his unexpurgated opinion of persons besotted enough to allow a pack of brats to roam at will over the house, picking up anything that chanced to take their fancy, but on this occasion he refrained, even saying benignly that it was of no consequence. “I’ll tell Almeria they can’t be found!” he added, with a flash of inspiration, and went back into the drawing-room, and firmly shut the door.

Lady Hester looked after him in helpless dismay, the colour rushing to her cheeks. She glanced deprecatingly at Sir Gareth, and saw that his eyes were brimful of laughter. He said: “Shall we see how many shifts your father and sister-in-law have in store to detach us from the rest of the company? It is extremely diverting, but, for myself, I confess I have been hoping for the opportunity to talk to you ever since I arrived at Brancaster.”

“Yes,” she said unhappily. “I am aware—I know that it is only right that I should—Oh, dear, I am saying such foolish things, but if you knew how painful it is to me you would forgive me!”

He had taken her hand in his, and he could feel how wildly her pulse was fluttering. He drew her towards the morning-room, and gently obliged her to enter it. It was lit only by an oil-lamp, a circumstance for which Hester disjointedly apologized.

“But, Hester, what is it?” he asked, his eyes searching her face. “Why do you tremble so? Surely you are not shy of me, such old friends as we are!”

“Oh, no! If we can but remain just that!”

“I think you must know that it is my very earnest wish to become more than your friend.”

“I do know it, and indeed I am very much obliged to you, and truly sensible of the honour you do me—”

“Hester!” he expostulated. “Must you talk such nonsense?”

“Not nonsense! Oh, no! You have paid me a great compliment, and journeyed all this distance, which quite sinks me with shame, for I daresay it was most inconvenient—yet how could I write to you? I am aware that it should have been done—it makes it so excessively disagreeable for you! But indeed I told Papa at the outset that I didn’t wish for the match!”

He was perfectly silent for a moment, a tiny crease between his brows. Perceiving it, she said despairingly: “You are very angry, and I cannot wonder at it.”

“No, I assure you! Only very much disappointed. I had hoped that you and I might have been happy together.”

“We should not suit,” she said faintly.

“If that were so, it must be my fault—and I would do my best to mend it,” he replied.

She looked startled, and exclaimed: “Oh, no! Pray do not—I did not mean—Sir Gareth, indeed you must not press me! I am not the wife for you.”

“Of that you must let me be the judge. Are you trying to tell me civilly that I am not the husband for you? But I would do my best to make you happy.”

She slid away from the question, saying only: “I don’t think of marriage.”

He came up to her, and again possessed himself of her hand. “Think of it now! If I don’t remotely resemble the man you dreamed you would marry, how many of us marry our dreams? Not many, I think—yet we contrive to be happy”

She said mournfully: “So very few! Alas, my dear friend, you did not!”

His clasp tightened on her hand, but he did not answer her immediately. When he spoke again, it was with a little difficulty. “Hester, if you are afraid that—if you are afraid of a ghost—you need not be! It is all so long ago! Not forgotten, but—oh, like a romantic tale, read when one was very young! Indeed, my dear, I haven’t come to you, dreaming of Clarissa!”

“I know—oh, I know!” she said, in a shaking voice. “But you don’t care for me.”

“You are mistaken: I have a very great regard for you.”

“Ah, yes! And I for you,” she said, with a pitiful attempt at a smile. “I think—I hope—that you will meet someone one day whom you will be able to love with all your heart. I beg of you, say no more!”

“I am not taking my rejection as I should, am I?” he said wryly.

“I am so very sorry! It is dreadfully mortifying for you!”

“Good God, what does that signify? But there is one thing I must say before we leave this. We are such old friends that you will let me speak frankly, I believe. Do you not think that even though we haven’t tumbled into love, headlong, as we did when we were very young, we might yet be very comfortable together? If I can’t give you romance, there are other things I can give you. No, I don’t mean riches: I know they would not weigh with you. But your situation is not happy. Forgive me if this gives you pain! You are not valued as you should be; neither your comfort nor your sensibility is a matter of concern to any member of your family. Indeed, it has frequently seemed to me that your sisters regard you as a convenient drudge! As for your sister-in-law, the tone of her mind is such that I am tolerably convinced that to live under the same roof with her must be a severe penance! Well! I can offer you a position of the first consequence. You would be at no one’s beck and call, you would be your own mistress—with a husband who, I promise you, would not make unreasonable demands of you. You may be sure that I should always attend to your wishes, and hold you in respect as well as affection. Would that not mean a happier life than the one you now lead?”

Her face was very white; she pulled her hand away, saying in a stifled voice: “No—anguish!”

This seemed so strange a thing for her to have said that he thought he could not have heard her aright. “I beg your pardon?” he said blankly.

She had moved away from him in some agitation, and said now, with her back turned to him: “I didn’t mean it—don’t heed it! I say such foolish things! Pray forgive me! I am so deeply grateful to you! Your wife will be the happiest of females, unless she is a monster, and I do hope you won’t marry a monster! If only I could find my handkerchief!”

He could not help smiling at this, but he said soothingly: “Take mine!”

“Oh, thank you!” she said, clutching it gratefully, and drying her cheeks with it. “Pray forgive me! I can’t think what should possess me to behave like a watering-pot. So inconsiderate of me, when I daresay there is nothing you dislike more!”

“I dislike very much to see you in distress and still more do I dislike the knowledge that it is my fault.”

“Indeed it is not! It is nothing but my own folly, and perhaps being a little tired tonight. I am better now. We must go back to the drawing-room.”

“We will do so, but presently, when you are more composed,” he replied, pulling forward a chair. “Come, sit down! It won’t do for you to show that face to your family, you know.” He saw that she was reluctant, and added: “I am not going to say anything to distress you further, I promise you.”

She took the chair, murmuring: “Thank you! Is my face quite blotched?”

“A very little: nothing to signify. Are you fixed at Brancaster for the whole summer?”