Stafford watched her as she went lightly and quickly up the road
towards the Hall, Bess and Donald leaping round her; then, with a sharp
feeling of elation, a feeling that was as novel as it was confusing, he
sprang on his horse, and putting him to a gallop, rode for home, with
one thought standing clearly out: that before many hours--the next
morning--he should see her again.
Once he shifted his whip to his left hand, and stretching out his right
hand, looked at it curiously: it seemed to be still thrilling with the
contact of her small, warm palm.
As he came up to The Woodman Inn he remembered, what he had forgotten
in the morning, that he had left his cigar-case on the dining-room
mantel-shelf. He pulled up, and giving Adonis to the hostler, who
rushed forward promptly, he went into the inn. There was no one in the
hall, and knowing that he should be late for luncheon, he opened the
dining-room door and walked in, and straight up to the fireplace.
The cigar-case was where he had left it, and he turned to go out. Then
he saw that he was not the only occupant of the room, for a lady was
sitting in the broad bay-window. He snatched off his cap and murmured
an apology.
"I beg your pardon! I did not know anyone was in the room," he said.
The lady was young and handsome, with a beauty which owed a great deal
to colour. Her hair was a rich auburn, her complexion of the delicate
purity which sometimes goes with that coloured hair--"milk and roses,"
it used to be called. Her eyes were of china blue, and her lips rather
full, but of the richest carmine. She was exquisitely dressed, her
travelling costume evidently of Redfern's build, and one hand, from
which she had removed the glove, was loaded with costly rings; diamonds
and emeralds as large as nuts, and of the first water.
But it was not her undeniable beauty, or her dress and costly
jewellery, which impressed Stafford so much as the proud, scornfully
listless air with which she regarded him as she leant back
indolently--and a little insolently--tapping the edge of the table with
her glove.
"Pray don't apologise," she said, languidly. "This is a public room, I
suppose!"
"Yes, I think so," said Stafford, in his pleasant, frank way; "but one
doesn't rush into a public room with one's hat on if he has reason to
suppose that a lady is present. I thought there was no one here--the
curtain concealed you: I am sorry."