“I appreciate your seriousness,” I rejoined.  “Has it been rewarded?”

“How can I say?  You haven’t told me whether or no I may follow you to the wildwood.”

“I mean, have you caught another glimpse of Mr. Saffren?”

At that she showed a prettier colour in her cheeks than any in her sketch-box, but gave no other sign of shame, nor even of being flustered, cheerfully replying: 

“That is far from the point.  Do you grant my burning plea?” “I understood I had offended you.”

“You did,” she said.  “Viciously!”

“I am sorry,” I continued.  “I wanted to ask you to forgive me—­”

I spoke seriously, and that seemed to strike her as odd or needing explanation, for she levelled her blue eyes at me, and interrupted, with something more like seriousness in her own voice than I had yet heard from her: 

“What made you think I was offended?”

“Your look of reproach when you left the table—­”

“Nothing else?” she asked quickly.

“Yes; Miss Ward told me you were.”

“Yes; she drove over with you.  That’s it!” she exclaimed with vigour, and nodded her head as if some suspicion of hers had been confirmed.  “I thought so!”

“You thought she had told me?”

“No,” said Miss Elliott decidedly.  “Thought that Elizabeth wanted to have her cake and eat it too.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Then you’ll get no help from me,” she returned slowly, a frown marking her pretty forehead.  “But I was only playing offended, and she knew it.  I thought your note was that fetching!”

She continued to look thoughtful for a moment longer, then with a resumption of her former manner—­the pretence of an earnestness much deeper than the real—­“Will you take me painting with you?” she said.  “If it will convince you that I mean it, I’ll give up my hopes of seeing that sumptuous Mr. Saffren and go back to Quesnay now, before he comes home.  He’s been out for a walk—­a long one, since it’s lasted ever since early this morning, so the waiter told me.  May I go with you?  You can’t know how enervating it is up there at the chateau—­all except Mrs. Harman, and even she—­”

“What about Mrs. Harman?” I asked, as she paused.

“I think she must be in love.”

“What!”

“I do think so,” said the girl.  “She’s like it, at least.”

“But with whom?”

She laughed gaily.  “I’m afraid she’s my rival!”

“Not with—­” I began.

“Yes, with your beautiful and mad young friend.”

“But—­oh, it’s preposterous!” I cried, profoundly disturbed.  “She couldn’t be!  If you knew a great deal about her—­”

“I may know more than you think.  My simplicity of appearance is deceptive,” she mocked, beginning to set her sketch-box in order.  “You don’t realise that Mrs. Harman and I are quite hurled upon each other at Quesnay, being two ravishingly intelligent women entirely surrounded by large bodies of elementals.  She has told me a great deal of herself since that first evening, and I know—­well, I know why she did not come back from Dives this afternoon, for instance.”