The boundless interest the people took in the combats, and especially that of the thirty, seemed to him a strange and inexplicable phenomenon.  It did not excite him in the least; he could turn his back upon it without hesitation.  He would, indeed, have left the crowd, and spent the day in the forest, or on the hills, but he could not leave Aurora.  He must be near her; he must see her, though he was miserable.  Now he feared that the last moment would come, and that he should not exchange a word with her.

He could not, with any show of pretext, prolong his stay beyond the sunset; all were already gone, with the exceptions mentioned.  It would be against etiquette to remain longer, unless specially invited, and he was not specially invited.  Yet he lingered, and lingered.  His horse was ready below; the groom, weary of holding the bridle, had thrown it over an iron hook in the yard, and gone about other business.  The sun perceptibly declined, and the shadow of the beeches of the forest began to descend the grassy slope.  Still he stayed, restlessly moving, now in the dining chamber, now in the hall, now at the foot of the staircase, with an unpleasant feeling that the servants looked at him curiously, and were watching him.

Oliver had gone long since, riding with his new friend Lord Durand; they must by now be half-way through the forest.  Forced by the inexorable flight of time, he put his foot upon the staircase to go up to the drawing-room and bid farewell to the Baroness.  He ascended it, step by step, as a condemned person goes to his doom.  He stayed to look out of the open windows as he went by; anything to excuse delay to himself.  He reached the landing at last, and had taken two steps towards the door, when Aurora’s maid, who had been waiting there an hour or more for the opportunity, brushed past him, and whispered, “The Rose arbour.”

Without a word he turned, hastened down the stairs, ran through the castle yard, out at the gate, and, entering the gardens between the wall and the inner stockade, made for the arbour on the terrace where the drama had been enacted.  Aurora was not there; but as he looked round, disappointed, she came from the Filbert walk, and, taking his arm, led him to the arbour.  They sat down without a word.  In a moment she placed her head upon his shoulder; he did not respond.  She put her arm (how warm it felt!) about his neck; he yielded stiffly and ungraciously to the pressure; she drew down his head, and kissed him.  His lips touched but did not press hers; they met, but did not join.  In his sullen and angry silence he would not look.  She drew still nearer, and whispered his name.

Then he broke out:  he pushed her away; his petty jealousy and injured self-esteem poured out upon her.

“I am not the heir to an earldom,” he said; “I do not ride with a score of gentlemen at my back.  They have some wonderful diamonds, have they not—­Countess?”