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The fugitive gleam,
the romantic glamour, had vanished now. He wondered what it was about
her that he had at first found attractive. It was the spirit of the
place, he decided, nothing more. With every step of the way there closed
over him again his natural reserve, his unconquerable diffidence, his
instinctive recoil from the eccentric in behaviour. Conventions were the
breath of his young nostrils, and yet he was passing through an
atmosphere, without, thank Heaven, his connivance or inclination, where
it seemed to him the hardiest convention could not possibly survive.
When the lights of the mansion shone nearer through the bared boughs, he
heaved a sigh of relief.
"Have I tired you?" asked the girl in response, and the curious lilting
note in her voice made him turn his head and glance at her in sudden
suspicion. Had she really hurt herself, or was she merely indulging some
hereditary streak of buffoonery at his expense? It struck him that she
would be capable of such a performance, or of anything else that invited
her amazing vivacity.


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