But he himself was being rapidly swept off his feet.  Since their meeting at Threlfall, which had been interrupted by Melrose’s freakish return, there had been other meetings, as delightful as before, yet no more conclusive or encouraging.  He and Lydia had indeed grown intimate.  He had revealed to her thoughts and feelings which he had unveiled for no one else—­not even for Victoria—­since he was a boy at school with boyish friendships.  And she had handled them with such delicacy, such sweetness; such frankness too, in return as to her own “ideas,” those stubborn intractable ideas, which made him frown to think of.  Yet all the time—­he knew it—­there had been no flirting on her part.  Never had she given him the smallest ground to think her in love with him.  On the contrary, she had maintained between them for all her gentleness, from beginning to end, that soft, intangible barrier which at once checked and challenged him.

Passion ran high in him.  And, moreover, he was beginning to be more than vaguely jealous.  He had seen for himself how much there was in common between her and Faversham; during the last fortnight he had met Faversham at the cottage on several occasions; and there had been references to other visits from the new agent.  He understood perfectly that Lydia was broadly, humanly interested in the man’s task:  the poet, the enthusiast in her was stirred by what he might do, if he would, for the humble folk she loved.  But still, there they were—­meeting constantly.  “And he can talk to her about all the things I can’t!”

His earlier optimism had quite passed by now; probably, though unconsciously, under the influence of Lydia’s nascent friendship with Faversham.  There had sprung up in him instead a constant agitation and disquiet that could no longer be controlled.  No help—­but rather danger—­lay in waiting....

Delorme had now turned away from Lydia to his hostess, and Lydia was talking to Squire Andover on her other side, a jolly old boy, with a gracious, absent look, who inclined his head to her paternally.  Tatham knew very well that there was no one in the county who was more rigidly tied to caste or rank.  But he was kind always to the outsider—­kind therefore to Lydia.  Good heavens!—­as if there was any one at the table fit to tie her shoe-string!

His pulses raced.  The heat, the golden evening, the flowers, all the lavish colour and scents of nature, seemed to be driving him toward speech—­toward some expression of himself, which must be risked, even if it lead him to disaster.

* * * * *

The dinner which appeared to Tatham interminable, and was really so short, by Victoria’s orders, that Squire Andover felt resentfully he had had nothing to eat, at last broke up.  The gentlemen lingered smoking on the loggia.  The ladies dispersed through the garden, and Delorme—­after a look round the male company—­quietly went with them.  So did the gentleman in the dinner jacket and black tie.  Tatham, impatiently doing his duty as host, could only follow the fugitives with his eyes, their pale silks and muslins, among the flowers and under the trees.