“He is a gentleman, which is more than you are,” she retorted, and, with a cut of her whip that narrowly missed her husband’s shoulder, sent the bay plunging through the gap.

“Come along,” she said to Erskine.  “We shall be late for luncheon.”

“Had we not better wait for Sir Charles?” he asked injudiciously.

“Never mind Sir Charles, he is in the sulks,” she said, without abating her voice.  “Come along.”  And she went off at a canter, Erskine following her with a misgiving that his visit was unfortunately timed, “unworthy of yourself, and that a net is closing round you?”

“No.  Nothing of the sort!”

“Then why are you so anxious to get away?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha, affecting to laugh as he looked sceptically at her from beneath his lowered eyelids.  “Perhaps I do feel a little like that; but not so much as you say.”

“I will explain the emotion to you,” he said, with a subdued ardor that affected Agatha strangely.  “But first tell me whether it is new to you or not.”

“It is not an emotion at all.  I did not say that it was.”

“Do not be afraid of it.  It is only being alone with a man whom you have bewitched.  You would be mistress of the situation if you only knew how to manage a lover.  It is far easier than managing a horse, or skating, or playing the piano, or half a dozen other feats of which you think nothing.”

Agatha colored and raised her head.

“Forgive me,” he said, interrupting the action.  “I am trying to offend you in order to save myself from falling in love with you, and I have not the heart to let myself succeed.  On your life, do not listen to me or believe me.  I have no right to say these things to you.  Some fiend enters into me when I am at your side.  You should wear a veil, Agatha.”

She blushed, and stood burning and tingling, her presence of mind gone, and her chief sensation one of relief to hear—­for she did not dare to see—­that he was departing.  Her consciousness was in a delicious confusion, with the one definite thought in it that she had won her lover at last.  The tone of Trefusis’s voice, rich with truth and earnestness, his quick insight, and his passionate warning to her not to heed him, convinced her that she had entered into a relation destined to influence her whole life.

“And yet,” she said remorsefully, “I cannot love him as he loves me.  I am selfish, cold, calculating, worldly, and have doubted until now whether such a thing as love really existed.  If I could only love him recklessly and wholly, as he loves me!”

Smilash was also soliloquizing as he went on his way.

“Now I have made the poor child—­who was so anxious that I should not mistake her for a supernaturally gifted and lovely woman—­as happy as an angel; and so is that fine girl whom they call Jane Carpenter.  I hope they won’t exchange confidences on the subject.”