“I suppose so, but it is rather startling to see such an animal so near to one.  I fear I am very nervous.”

“By the bye.” said the squire with the bold irrelevancy of a man who wants to turn the subject, “are you fond of flowers?”

“I?” said Mrs. Goddard in surprise.  “Yes—­very.  Why?”

“I thought you would not mind if I had the garden here improved a little.  One might put in a couple of frames.  I did not see any flowers about.  I am so fond of them myself, you see, that I always look for them.”

“You are very kind,” answered Mrs. Goddard.  “But I would not have you take any trouble on my account.  We are so comfortable and so fond of the cottage already—­”

“Well, I hope you will grow to like it even better,” returned the squire with a genial smile.  “Anything I can do, you know—­” he rose as though to take his leave.  “Excuse me, but may I look at that picture?  Andrea del Sarto?  Yes, I thought so—­wonderful—­upon my word, in a cottage in Billingsfield.  Where did you find it?”

“It was my husband’s,” said Mrs. Goddard.

“Ah—­ah, yes,” said the squire in a subdued tone.  “I beg your pardon,” he added, as people often do, unconsciously, when they fancy they have accidentally roused in another a painful train of thought.  Then he turned to go.  “We dine at half-past seven, you know, so as to be early for Miss Nellie,” he said, as he went out.

Mrs. Goddard was glad he was gone, though she felt that he was not unsympathetic.  The story of the dog had frightened her, and her own mention of her husband had made her nervous and sad.  More than ever she felt that fear of being in a false position, which had assailed her when she had first met the squire on the previous evening.  He had at once opened relations with her in a way which showed that he intended to be intimate; he had offered to improve her cottage, had insisted upon making frames in her garden, had asked her to dinner with the Ambroses and had established the right to talk to her whenever he got a chance.  He interested her, too, which was worse.  His passing references to his travels and to his adventures, of which he spoke with the indifference of a man accustomed to danger, his unassuming manner, his frank ways—­everything about him awakened her interest.  She had supposed that in two years the very faculty of being interested by a man would be dulled if not destroyed; she found to her annoyance that though she had seen Mr. Juxon only twice she could not put him out of her thoughts.  She was, moreover, a nervous, almost morbid, woman, and the natural result of trying to forget his existence was that she could think of nothing else.