One morning Miss Carew sat on the bank of a great pool in the park,
throwing pebbles two by two into the water, and intently watching
the intersection of the circles they made on its calm surface. Alice
was seated on a camp-stool a little way off, sketching the castle,
which appeared on an eminence to the southeast. The woodland rose
round them like the sides of an amphitheatre; but the trees did not
extend to the water's edge, where there was an ample margin of
bright greensward and a narrow belt of gravel, from which Lydia was
picking her pebbles.
Presently, hearing a footstep, she looked back, and saw Cashel Byron
standing behind Alice, apparently much interested in her drawing. He
was dressed as she had last seen him, except that he wore primrose
gloves and an Egyptian red scarf. Alice turned, and surveyed him
with haughty surprise; but he made nothing of her looks; and she,
after glancing at Lydia to reassure herself that she was not alone,
bade him good-morning, and resumed her work.
"Queer place," he remarked, after a pause, alluding to the castle.
"Chinese looking, isn't it?"
"It is considered a very fine building," said Alice.
"Oh, hang what it is considered!" said Cashel. "What IS it? That is
the point to look to."
"It is a matter of taste," said Alice, very coldly.
"Mr. Cashel Byron."
Cashel started and hastened to the bank. "How d'ye do, Miss Carew,"
he said. "I didn't see you until you called me." She looked at him;
and he, convicted of a foolish falsehood, quailed. "There is a
splendid view of the castle from here," he continued, to change the
subject. "Miss Goff and I have just been talking about it."
"Yes. Do you admire it?"
"Very much indeed. It is a beautiful place. Every one must
acknowledge that."
"It is considered kind to praise my house to me, and to ridicule it
to other people. You do not say, 'Hang what it is considered,' now."
Cashel, with an unaccustomed sense of getting the worst of an
encounter, almost lost heart to reply. Then he brightened, and said,
"I can tell you how that is. As far as being a place to sketch, or
for another person to look at, it is Chinese enough. But somehow
your living in it makes a difference. That is what I meant; upon my
soul it is."
Lydia smiled; but he, looking down at her, did not see the smile
because of her coronet of red hair, which seemed to flame in the
sunlight. The obstruction was unsatisfactory to him; he wanted to
see her face. He hesitated, and then sat down on the ground beside
her cautiously, as if getting into a very hot bath.