I bowed gravely.  She was standing bareheaded now at the edge of the cliff, watching the flight of the bird.  It was delightful to see the faint pink come back to her cheeks with the sting of the salt wind.  Nevertheless, I had an idea in my mind that it was not wholly for her health’s sake that Lady Angela walked abroad so early.

“Tell me,” she said presently, “have you had a visitor this morning?”

“What, at this hour?” I exclaimed.

“There are other early risers besides you and me,” she said.  “The spinney gate was open, so some one has passed through.”

I shook my head.

“I have not seen or heard a soul,” I told her.  “I have just finished some work, and I am on my way up to the house with it.”

“You really mean it?” she persisted.

“Of course I do,” I answered her.  “Grooton is the only person I have spoken to for at least nine hours.  Why do you ask?”

She hesitated.

“My window looks this way,” she said, “and I fancied that I saw some one cross the Park while I was dressing.  The spinney gate was certainly open.”

“Then I fancy that it has been open all night,” I declared, “for to the best of my belief no one has passed through it save yourself.  May I walk with you back to the house, Lady Angela?  There is something which I should very much like to ask you.”

She replaced her hat, which she had been carrying in her hand.  I stood watching her deft white fingers flashing amongst the thick silky coils of her hair.  The extreme slimness of her figure seemed accentuated by her backward poise.  Yet perhaps I had never before properly appreciated its perfect gracefulness.

“I was going farther along the cliffs,” she said, “but I will walk some of the way back with you.  One minute.”

She stood on the extreme edge, and, shading her eyes with her hand, she looked up and down the broad expanse of sand—­a great untenanted wilderness.  I wondered for whom or what she was looking, but I asked no question.  In a few moments she rejoined me, and we turned inland.

“Well,” she said, “what is it that you wish to say?”

“Lady Angela,” I began, “a few weeks ago there was no one whose prospects were less hopeful than mine.  Thanks to your father and Colonel Ray all that is changed.  To-day I have a position I am proud of, and important work.  Yet I cannot help always remembering this:  I am holding a post which you warned me against accepting.”

“Well?”

“I am very curious,” I said.  “I have never understood your warning.  I believe that you were in earnest.  Was it that you believed me incapable or untrustworthy, or—­”

“You appear to me,” she murmured, “to be rather a curious person.”

I bent forward and looked into her face.  There was in her wonderful eyes a glint of laughter which became her well.  She walked with slow graceful ease, her hands behind her, her head almost on a level with my own.  I found myself studying her with a new pleasure.  Then our eyes met, and I looked away, momentarily confused.  Was it my fancy, or was there a certain measure of rebuke in her cool surprise, a faint indication of her desire that I should remember that she was the Lady Angela Harberly, and I her father’s secretary?  I bit my lip.  She should not catch me offending again, I determined.