In the middle of it she turned abruptly towards Sorell. Her eyes beckoned, and he carried her off to the further end of the garden, where they were momentarily alone. There she fell upon him.
“Why did you never write to me all last winter?”
He could not help a slight flush.
“You had so many friends without me,” he said, stammeringly, at last.
“One hasn’t so many old friends.” The voice was reproachful. “I thought you must be offended with me.”
“How could I be!”
“And you call me Lady Constance,” she went on indignantly. “When did you ever do such a thing in Rome, or when we were travelling?”
His look betrayed his feeling.
“Ah, but you were a little girl then, and now—”
“Now”—she said impatiently—“I am just Constance Bledlow, as I was then—to you. But I don’t give away my Christian name to everybody. I don’t like, for instance, being forced to give it to Aunt Ellen!”
And she threw a half-laughing, half-imperious glance towards Mrs. Hooper in the distance.
Sorell smiled.
“I hope you’re going to be happy here!” he said earnestly.
“I shall be happy enough—if I don’t quarrel with Aunt Ellen!”
“Don’t quarrel with anybody! Call me in, before you do. And do make friends with your uncle. He is delightful.”
“Yes, but far too busy for the likes of me. Oh, I dare say I shall keep out of mischief.”
But he thought he detected in her tone a restlessness, a forlornness, which pained him.
“Why not take up some study—some occupation? Learn something—go in for Honours!” he said, laughing.
She laughed too, but with a very decided shake of the head. Then she turned upon him suddenly.
“But there is something I should like to learn! Papa began to teach me. I should like to learn Greek.”
“Bravo!” he said, with a throb of pleasure. “And take me for a teacher!”
“Do you really mean it?”
“Entirely.” They strolled on, arranging times and seasons, Constance throwing herself into the scheme with a joyous and childlike zest.