“So that is Katherine Liddell,” said De Burgh, looking after her, regardless of Mrs. Ormonde’s declaration that she was going to scold him.

“Yes.  Is she not like what you expected?”

“Expected?  I did not expect anything; but she isn’t a bit like what you described.”

“How so?  Did I say too much?”

“Yes, a great deal too much, but the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, you talked as if she was a regular gushing school-girl, ready to swallow any double-barrelled compliment one chose to offer, whereas she is a finely developed woman, by Jove! with brains too, or I am much mistaken.  Why, my charming little friend, she is older in some ways than you are.”

“Oh, nonsense.  You need not flatter me.”

“It’s not flattery, it’s—­”

The arrival of the riding party with the addition of Errington prevented him from finishing his sentence.

CHAPTER XVI.

HANDLING THE RIBBONS.

De Burgh was told off to take Katherine in to dinner that day and the next, and bestowed a good deal of his attention on her during the evening.  He rather amused her, for he was a new type to her.  The men she had met during her sojourn on the Continent were chiefly polished French and Italians, whose softness and respectful manner to women were perhaps exaggerated, and a sprinkling of diplomatic and dilettante Englishmen.  De Burgh’s style was curiously—­almost roughly—­frank, yet there was an unmistakable air of distinction about him.  He seemed not to think it worth while to take trouble about anything, yet he could talk well when by chance a topic interested him, Katherine would have been very dull had she not perceived that he was attracted by her.  She was by no means so exalted a character as to be indifferent to his tribute; nevertheless she was half afraid of the cynical, outspoken, high-born Bohemian, who seemed to have small respect for people or opinions.  She showed little of this feeling, however, having held her own with spirit in their various arguments, as, it need scarcely be said, they rarely agreed.

“What is this mysterious piece of work I see constantly in your hands?” asked De Burgh, taking his place beside Katherine when the men came in after dinner a few days after his arrival.

“It is a black silk stocking for Cecil.”

“One of the nephews, eh?  So you are capable of knitting!  It must be a dreary occupation.”

“No; it becomes mechanical, and it is better than sitting with folded hands.”

“I am not sure it is.  I have great faith in natures that can take complete rest—­men who can do nothing, absolutely nothing—­and so create a reserve fund of fresh energy for the next hour of need.  There is no strength in fidgety feverishness.”

“There is not much feverishness in knitting,” returned Katherine, beginning a new row.