He paled below his sunburn.  Now he believed the truth of the horrid suspicion which had been fastening on his mind.  “But—­but,” he stammered, “the chap isn’t a gentleman, you know.”

The words quickened her vexation.  A gentleman!  The cant word, the fetish of this ring of idle aristocrats—­she knew the hollowness of the whole farce.  The democrat in her made her walk off with erect head and bright eyes, leaving a penitent boy behind; while all the time a sick, longing heart drove her to the edge of tears.

The days dragged slowly for the girl.  The brightness had gone out of the wide, airy landscape, and the warm August days seemed chill.  She hated herself for the wrong impression she had left on the boy Arthur’s mind, but she was too proud to seek to erase it; she could but trust to his honour for silence.  If Lewis heard—­the thought was too terrible to face!  He would resign himself to the inevitable; she knew the temper of the man.  Good form was his divinity, and never by word or look would he attempt to win another man’s betrothed.  She must see him and learn the truth:  but he came no more to Glenavelin, and Etterick was a far cry for a girl’s fancy.  Besides, the Twelfth had come and the noise of guns on every hill spoke of other interests for the party at Etterick.  Lewis had forgotten his misfortunes, she told herself, and in the easy way of the half-hearted found in bodily fatigue a drug for a mind but little in need of it.

One afternoon Lady Manorwater came over the lawn waving a letter.  “Do you want to go and picnic to-morrow, Alice?” she cried.  “Lewis is to be shooting on the moors at the head of the Avelin, and he wants us to come and lunch at the Pool of Ness.  He wants the whole party to come, particularly Mr. Stocks, and he wants to know if you have forgiven him.  What can the boy mean?”

As the cheerful little lady paused, Alice’s heart beat till she feared betrayal.  A sudden fierce pleasure burned in her veins.  Did he still seek her good opinion?  Was he, as well as herself, miserable alone?  And then came like a stab the thought that he had joined her with Stocks.  Did he class her with that alien world of prigs and dullards?  She ceased to think, and avoiding her hostess and tea, ran over the wooden bridge to the slope of hill and climbed up among the red heather.

A month ago she had been heart-whole and young, a simple child.  The same prejudices and generous beliefs had been hers, but held loosely with a child’s comprehension.  But now this old world had been awakened to arms against a dazzling new world of love and pleasure.  She was led captive by emotion, but the cold rook of scruple remained.  She had read of women surrendering all for love, but she felt dismally that this happy gift had been denied her.  Criticism, a fierce, vulgar antagonism, impervious to sentiment, not to be exorcised by generous impulse—­such was her unlovely inheritance.