“No,” replied the girl, rising.  “The rain has ceased, so I shall go for my walk;” and she left the room to put on her hat and mackintosh, passing along before the window a few minutes later in the direction of King’s Cliffe.

It was always the same.  If she indulged herself in singing one or other of those ancient love-songs of the hot-blooded Tuscan peasants her aunt always scolded.  Nothing she did was right, for the simple reason that she was an unwelcome visitor.

She was alone.  Rover was conducting sheep to Stamford market, as was his duty every week; therefore in the fading daylight she went along, immersed in her own sad thoughts.  Her walk at that hour was entirely aimless.  She had only gone forth because of the irritation she felt at her aunt’s constant complaints.  So entirely engrossed was she by her own despair that she had not noticed the figure of a man who, catching sight of her at the end of Woodnewton village, had held back until she had gone a considerable distance, and had then sauntered leisurely in the direction she had taken.

The man kept her in view, but did not approach her.  The high, red mail-cart passed, and the driver touched his hat respectfully to her.  The man who collected the evening mail from all the villages between Deene and Peterborough met her almost every evening, and had long ago inquired and learnt who she was.

For nearly two miles she walked onward, until, close by the junction of the road which comes down the hill from Nassington, the man who had been following hastened up and overtook her.

She heard herself addressed by name, and, turning quickly, found herself face to face with James Flockart.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE VELVET PAW

The new-comer stood before Gabrielle, hat in hand, smiling pleasantly and uttering a greeting of surprise.

Her response was cold, for was not all her present unhappiness due to him?

“I’ve come here to speak to you, Gabrielle—­to speak to you in confidence.”

“Whatever you have to say may surely be said in the hearing of a third person?” was her dignified answer.  His sudden appearance had startled her, but only for a moment.  She was cool again next instant, and on her guard against her enemy.

“I hardly think,” he said, with a meaning smile, “that you would really like me to speak before a third party.”

“I really care nothing,” was her answer.  “And I cannot see why you seek me here.  When one is hopeless, as I am, one becomes callous of what the future may bring.”

“Hopeless!  Yes,” he said in a changed voice, “I know that; living in this dismal hole, Gabrielle, you must be hopeless.  I know that your exile here, away from all your friends and those you love, must be soul-killing.  Don’t think that I have not reflected upon it a hundred times.”

“Ah, then you have at last experienced remorse!” she cried bitterly, looking straight into the man’s face.  “You have estranged me from my father, and tried to ruin him!  You lied to him—­lied in order to save yourself!”