Part 20 (2/2)
She raised her clear, wonderful eyes to his as she stammered a question, asking if that was his first visit to the Riviera.
”Yes,” he answered, gazing around at the Casino, the mountains, and the sea. ”How charming it is here. I don't wonder that you are so fond of it.”
”I'm not fond of it?” she protested, with a sigh. ”I would rather be in England--much rather.”
”Yet you are half-French yourself! Surely this is gayer and much more pleasant than Stratfield Mortimer,” he exclaimed, leaning with his back to the bal.u.s.trade, glancing at her elegant dress, and noticing how well it suited her.
”The surroundings are perhaps more picturesque,” she replied, turning her gaze sea-ward. ”But I was far happier there than here,” She sighed and the little gloved hand holding her sunshade trembled.
”Why?” he inquired surprised.
For an instant she raised her eyes to his, then lowering her gaze, answered,--
”Why do you ask? Did I not then have you?”
”But I am here now,” he said quickly. ”I must, however, admit that your welcome was scarcely as cordial as I expected.”
Her lips tightened, and she swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
”I--I cannot kiss you here, in a public place,” she said, with a little gesture of regret.
The strange coldness about her voice caused him dismay. It proved that the apparent apathy of her letters actually arose from indifference.
His suspicions were correct. Her love had grown cold.
A heavy look of disappointment crossed his face, as pausing a moment, he glanced at her, and saw that she s.h.i.+vered.
”Come,” he exclaimed. ”You have, I believe, stood here too long. The breeze is perhaps chilly. Let us walk.”
”I'm not cold at all,” she a.s.sured him, without moving.
”Except towards me,” he observed, gloomily.
”I wasn't aware that my att.i.tude was one of indifference,” she said, endeavouring to smile.
”There is a change in you, Liane,” the young man declared, gazing seriously into her eyes. ”Tell me, darling, what has occurred.”
She held her breath for a moment. She loved him dearer than life, yet she feared to speak the truth lest he should turn from her and renounce her as an enchantress false and unworthy. Her countenance was almost pale as the dress she wore, and her breast rose and fell convulsively.
”Nothing,” she answered at last. ”Nothing has occurred.”
”But you are not bright and happy as you used to be,” he declared sympathetically. ”Something troubles you. Confide in me, darling.”
She turned her face from him and tears slowly coursed down her cheeks.
But she made no response. Together they walked several times the whole length of the terrace, and their conversation drifted to other topics.
He told her of his bachelor life in London, his lonely, dreary chambers, of his desperate struggle to secure a foothold in his already overcrowded profession, and of his good fortune in obtaining a little book-reviewing for a weekly paper.
”Now, what distresses you, Liane?” he asked at last, when again they were standing against the parapet gazing over the sea. ”Surely I may know?”
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