Never be downhearted. Like a petulant child he snapped. Don’t be frightened, dear. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. He turned round toward her and found her looking at him and standing very still. And, stretching out his hand, he lifted the dark object from the flood. I should like to know how it is concerned with Sir John Ferringhall, and how my presence intervenes. It was not for a week or a month. But never mind that. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. It was wonderful.
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