He was frightened when he had done it; for he saw, to his surprise, that she was frightened.  She took the flower, smiling thanks, and expressing a little commonplace horror and astonishment at his having gone down such a dangerous cliff:  but she took it to Elsley, drew his arm through hers, and seemed determined to make as much of him as possible for the rest of the afternoon.  “The fellow was jealous, then, in addition to his other sins!” And Campbell, who felt that he had put himself unnecessarily forward between husband and wife, grew more and more angry; and somehow, unlike his usual wont, refused to confess himself in the wrong, because he was in the wrong.  Certainly it was not pleasant for poor Elsley; and so Lucia felt, and bore with him when he refused to be comforted, and rendered blessing for railing when he said to her more than one angry word; but she had been accustomed to angry words by this time.

All might have passed off, but for that careless Valencia, who had not seen the details of what had passed; and so advised herself to ask where Lucia got that beautiful plant?

“Major Campbell picked it up for her from the cliff,” said Elsley, drily.

“Ah? at the risk of his neck, I don’t doubt.  He is the most matchless cavalier servente.”

“I shall leave Mrs. Vavasour to his care, then—­that is, for the present,” said Elsley, drawing his arm from Lucia’s.

“I assure you,” answered she, roused in her turn by his determined bad temper, “I am not the least afraid of being left in the charge of so old a friend.”

Elsley made no answer, but sprang down through the thickets, calling loudly to Claude Mellot.

It was very naughty of Lucia, no doubt:  but even a worm will turn; and there are times when people who have not courage to hold their peace must say something or other; and do not always, in the hurry, get out what they ought, but only what they have time to think of.  And she forgot what she had said the next minute, in Major Campbell’s question—­

“Am I, then, so old a friend, Mrs. Vavasour?”

“Of course; who older?”

Campbell was silent a moment.  If he was inclined to choke, at least Lucia did not see it.

“I trust I have not offended your—­Mr. Vavasour?”

“Oh!” she said, with a forced gaiety, “only one of his poetic fancies.  He wanted so much to see Mr. Mellot photograph the waterfall.  I hope he will be in time to find him.”

“I am a plain soldier, Mrs. Vavasour, and I only ask because I do not understand.  What are poetic fancies?”

Lucia looked up in his face puzzled, and saw there an expression so grave, pitying, tender, that her heart leaped up toward him, and then sank back again.

“Why do you ask?  Why need you know?  You are no poet.”

“And for that very cause I ask you.”

“Oh, but,” said she, guessing at what was in his mind, and trying, woman-like, to play purposely at cross purposes, and to defend her husband at all risks; “he has an extraordinary poetic faculty; all the world agrees to that, Major Campbell.”