"
"I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind
a little."
He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with
his hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop.
"Do you know I'm very much afraid of it- of that remarkable mind of
yours?"
Our heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question
made her start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She
returned his look a moment, and then with a note in her voice that
might almost have appealed to his compassion, "So am I, my lord!"
she oddly exclaimed.
His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the
faculty of pity was needed at home. "Ah! be merciful, be merciful," he
murmured.
"I think you had better go," said Isabel. "I'll write to you."
"Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know."
And then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant
countenance of Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all
that had been said and of pretending to carry off the indiscretion
by a simulated fit of curiosity as to the roots of an ancient oak.
"There's one thing more," he went on.
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