Part 17 (1/2)

”But why is it broken off?” I asked. ”I thought when people were engaged that, if they were nice people, they considered it sacred, and--and _kept_ engaged until they married.”

”Oh, you dear little innocent!” he replied. ”How little you know! Well, at any rate, I am not going to enlighten you with regard to the ways of this wicked world. The engagement is broken off, and I am glad of it. I didn't do it; she did. She has engaged herself now to another man, with five or six times my money. She is all right, and so am I.”

Then I said slowly, ”You puzzle me very much, Captain Carbury. I thought you were very, very fond of her.”

He dug his stick into the gravel walk near; then he glanced round at me impatiently.

”You can put all that sort of thing into the past tense,” he said. ”Now tell me about yourself. How are you getting on?”

”I am not getting on,” I answered.

”You surprise me! I hear quite the contrary I hear that dear little Miss Heather, who was so kind to me, and did me such immense honour as to put me into her gallery of heroes, is making quite a stir in society.

When society begins to appreciate you, Miss Heather, you ought to consider yourself in luck. They say--and by 'they' I mean the people who live in this wicked world, the people who are 'in the know,' you understand--that if you are not engaged to be married before this time next year, you will be the height of the fas.h.i.+on.”

I found myself colouring very deeply.

”I don't intend to be either engaged or married,” I said; ”and to make a stir in society is about the very last thing I should wish.”

”I wonder what you would wish?” he asked, looking at me attentively.

I looked back at him. Then I said, in a low, quiet voice:

”I can't quite understand why it is, but I find it very easy to tell you things. Perhaps it is because you are in my gallery and I am in yours.”

”Yes, of course, that is the reason,” he replied, with one of his quick, beautiful smiles.

”I will tell you what I really want.”

”Do, Miss Heather--I really can't call you Miss Dalrymple, so it must be Miss Heather.”

”I don't mind,” I answered.

”Well, now then, out with your greatest wis.h.!.+”

”I should like,” I said, speaking deliberately, ”to leave London, and to go into the heart of the country, to find there a pretty cottage, with woodbine and monthly roses climbing about the walls, and dear little low-ceiled rooms, and little lattice windows, and no sign of any other house anywhere near at all. And I should like beyond words to take father and live with him, all by our two selves, in that cottage. I should not want fine dresses there, and society would matter less than nothing to me.”

Captain Carbury looked somewhat surprised, then he said, quietly:

”About your father; well, of course, I--I _can't_ speak about him, you know, but there's--there's Lady Helen. How would she enjoy your programme?”

”There would be no programme at all, no dream to be fulfilled, no happiness to be secured, if she went with us,” I answered.

”Oh, I see,” he answered; ”poor little Miss Heather!” And he whistled softly under his breath.

I looked full at him.

”You don't like her either,” I said, and it seemed to me that a new and very strong chord of sympathy sprang up between us as I uttered the words.

”No,” he answered. ”I won't say why--I won't give any reasons; she may mean all right, but she's a worldly woman, and I don't care a bit about worldly women. I am afraid you won't have your dream, Miss Heather, so I must tell you what is the next best thing for you to do.”