Carinthia saw her brother tickled and interested.  A feather moved her.  Full of tears though she was, her, heart lay open to the heavens and their kind, small, wholesome gifts.  Her happiness in the walk with her brother and her friend—­the pair of them united by her companionship, both of them showing they counted her their comrade—­was the nearest to the radiant day before she landed on an island, and imagined happiness grew here, and found it to be gilt thorns, loud mockery.  A shaving North-easter tore the scream from hedges and the roar from copses under a faceless breadth of sky, and she said, as they turned into Esslemont Park lane:  ‘We have had one of our old walks to-day, Chillon!’

‘You used to walk together long walks over in your own country,’ said Mr. Wythan.

‘Yes, Owain, we did, and my brother never knew me tired.’

‘Never knew you confess to it,’ said Chillon, as he swallowed the name on her lips.

‘Walking was flying over there, brother.’

‘Say once or twice in Wales, too,’ Mr. Wythan begged of her.

’Wales reminded.  Yes, ..Owain, I shall not forget Wales, Welsh people.  Mr. Woodseer says they have the three-stringed harp in their breasts, and one string is always humming, whether you pull it or no.’

’That ’s love of country! that ‘s their love of wild Wales, Carinthia.’

There was a quiet interrogation in Chillon’s turn of the head at this fervent simpleton.

‘I love them for that hum,’ said she.  ‘It joins one in me.’

‘Call to them any day, they are up, ready to march!’

‘Oh, dear souls!’ Carinthia said.

Her breath drew in.

The three were dumb.  They saw Lord Fleetwood standing in the park gateway.

CHAPTER XXXVII

BETWEEN CARINTHIA AND HER LORD

The earl’s easy grace of manner was a ceremonial mantle on him as he grasped the situation in a look.  He bent with deferential familiarity to his countess, exactly toning the degree of difference which befitted a salute to the two gentlemen, amiable or hostile.

‘There and back?’ he said, and conveyed a compliment to Carinthia’s pedestrian vigour in the wary smile which can be recalled for a snub.

She replied:  ‘We have walked the distance, my lord.’

Her smile was the braced one of an untired stepper.

‘A cold wind for you.’

‘We walked fast.’

She compelled him to take her in the plural, though he addressed her separately, but her tones had their music.

‘Your brother, Captain Kirby-Levellier, I believe?’

‘My brother is not of the army now, my lord.’

She waved her hand for Madge to conduct donkey and baby to the house.  He noticed.  He was unruffled.

The form of amenity expected from her, in relation to her brother, was not exhibited.  She might perhaps be feeling herself awkward at introductions, and had to be excused.