She made no answer to that, but in a moment or two she turned and looked at me thoughtfully.

“You are rather a surprising person,” she remarked, “in many ways.  And you certainly have strange tastes.”

“Is it a strange taste to love this place?” I asked.

“Of course not.  But, on time other hand, it is strange that you should be content to remain here indefinitely.  Solitude is all very well at times, but at your age I think that the vigorous life of a great city should have many attractions for you.  Life here, after all, must become something of an abstraction.”

“It contents me,” I declared shortly.

“Then I am not sure that you are in an altogether healthy frame of mind,” she answered, coolly.  “Have you no ambitions?”

“Such as I have,” I muttered, “are hopeless.  They were built on sand—­and they have fallen.”

“Then reconstruct them,” she said.  “You are far too young to speak with such a note of finality.”

“Some day,” I answered, “I suppose I shall.  At present I am content to live on, amongst the fragments.  One needs only imagination.  The things one dreams about are always more beautiful and perhaps more satisfying than the things one does.”

Again our eyes met, and I fancied that this time she was looking a little frightened.  At any rate she knew.  I was sure of that.

“What an ineffective sort of proceeding!” she murmured.

A creek separated us for a few minutes.  When we came together again I asked her a question.

“There is something, Lady Angela,” I said, “which, if you would forgive the impertinence of it, I should very much like to ask you.”

She moved her head slowly, as though giving a tacit consent.  But I do not think that she was quite prepared for what I asked her.

“When are you going to marry Colonel Ray?”

She looked at me quickly, almost furtively, and I saw that her cheeks were flushed.  There was a look in her eyes, too, which I could not fathom.

“The date is not decided yet,” she said.  “You know there is some talk of trouble in Egypt, and if so he might have to leave at a moment’s notice.”

“It will not be, at any rate, before the autumn, then?” I persisted.

“No!”

I drew a little breath of relief.  I was reckless whether she heard it or not.  Suddenly she paused.

“Who is that?” she asked.

I recognized him at once—­a small grey figure, standing on the top of a sandhill a little way off, and regarding us steadily.  It was the Duke.

“Your father!” I said.

We quickened our pace.  If Lady Angela was in any way discomposed she showed no signs of it.  She waved her hand, and the Duke solemnly removed his hat.

“I am so glad that he has come down before the others,” she said.  “I am longing to have a talk with him.  And I don’t believe he knows anything about Blenavon.  No, he’s far too cheerful.”