"I shall never see London," she said, with a sort of resigned air. "You will all go away very soon, and I--I shall be lonely--"
She bit her lips in quick vexation, as her blue eyes filled again with tears in spite of herself.
Lorimer turned away and pulled a chair to the open window.
"Come and sit down here," he said invitingly. "We shall be able to see the others coming down the hill. Nothing like fresh air for blowing away the blues." Then, as she obeyed him, he added, "What has Dyceworthy been saying to you?"
"He told me I was wicked," she murmured; "and that all the people here think very badly of me. But that was not the worst"--and a little shudder passed over her--"there was something else--something that made me very angry--so angry!"--and here she raised her eyes with a gravely penitent air--"Mr. Lorimer, I do not think I have ever had so bad and fierce a temper before!"
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Lorimer, with a broad smile. "You alarm me, Miss Güldmar! I had no idea you were a 'bad, fierce' person,--I shall get afraid of you--I shall, really!"
"Ah, you laugh!" and she spoke half-reproachfully. "You will not be serious for one little moment!"
"Yes I will! Now look at me," and he assumed a solemn expression, and drew himself up with an air of dignity. "I am all attention! Consider me your father-confessor. Miss Güldmar, and explain the reason of this 'bad, fierce' temper of yours."
She peeped at him shyly from under her silken lashes.
"It is more dreadful than you think," she answered in a low tone. "Mr. Dyceworthy asked me to marry him."
Lorimer's keen eyes flashed with indignation. This was beyond a jest,--and he clenched his fist as he exclaimed-"Impudent donkey! What a jolly good thrashing he deserves! . . . and I shouldn't be surprised if he got it one of these days! And so, Miss Güldmar,"--and he studied her face with some solicitude--"you were very angry with him?"
"Oh yes!" she replied, "but when I told him he was a coward, and that he must go away, he said some very cruel things--" she stopped, and blushed deeply; then, as if seized by some sudden impulse, she laid her small hand on Lorimer's and said in the tone of an appealing child, "you are very good and kind to me, and you are clever,--you know so much more than I do! You must help me,--you will tell me, will you not? . . . if it is wrong of me to like you all,--it is as if we had known each other a long time and I have been very happy with you and your friends. But you must teach me to behave like the girls you have seen in London,--for I could not bear that Sir Philip should think me wicked!"