When Stafford and Maude Falconer went down to the lake after luncheon,
they found a party from the Villa just embarking on board one of the
launches; the air was filled with laughter and chatter, and the little
quay was bright with the white flannels of the men and the gay frocks
of the women. The party greeted the two with an exuberant welcome, and
Bertie called out to ask them if they were coming on board.
"Perhaps you would rather go on the launch, Miss Falconer?" said
Stafford; but she shook her head.
"No, thanks," she said, languidly. "I hate crowds of that kind. I'd
rather stick to our original proposition; it will bore me less. But
perhaps you'd rather join them?"
"Is it likely?" said Stafford, with a smile, as he signed to the man to
bring up a skiff. "Now, let me make you as comfortable as I can. We
ought to have had a gondola," he added, as he handed her to the seat in
the stern.
She leant back with her sunshade over her shoulder, and Stafford, as he
slipped off his blazer and rowed out towards the centre of the lake,
looked at her with unconscious admiration. She was simply, perfectly
dressed in a yachting costume of white and pale-blue, which set off to
the fullest advantage her exquisite complexion and her red-gold hair.
But it was admiration of the coldest kind, for even at that moment he
was thinking of the girl in the well-worn habit, the girl he loved with
a passion that made his slightest thought of her a psalm of worship.
And Maude, though she appeared half asleep, like a beautiful wild
animal basking in the warmth of the sun, glanced at him now and again
and noted the strength and grace of his figure, the almost Grecian
contour of the handsome face. She had made her wager with Howard on the
spur of the moment, prompted by the vanity of a woman piqued by the
story of Stafford's indifference to her sex; but as she looked at him
she wondered how a woman would feel if she fell in love with him. But
she had no fears for herself; there was a coldness in her nature which
had hitherto guarded her from the fever which men call love, and she
thought herself quite secure. There would be amusement, triumph, in
making him love her, in winning her wager with that cynical Mr. Howard,
who boasted of his friend's invulnerability; and when she had
conquered, and gratified her vanity--Ah, well, it would be easy to step
aside and bring the curtain down upon her triumph and Stafford's
discomfiture. She would wear that Mr. Howard's ring, and every time she
looked at it, it should remind her of her conquest.