Thyrza | Page 6

certain whether you were in England, though she knew you were in
London a month ago.'
'Miss Tyrrell is with you?' he asked, as if it were very unexpected.
'But didn't you know? She has been ill, and they sent her to us to
recruit.'
'Ah! I have been in Jersey for a month; I have heard nothing.'
'You were able to tear yourself from London in mid-season?'
'But when was I a devotee of the Season, Miss Newthorpe?'
'We hear you progress in civilisation.'
'Well, I hope so. I've had a month of steady reading, and feel better for
it. I took a big chest of books to Jersey. But I hope Miss Tyrrell is
better?'
'Quite herself again. Shall we walk up to the house?'

'I have broken in upon your reading.'
She exhibited the volume; it was Buskin's 'Sesame and Lilies.'
'Ah! you got it; and like it?'
'On the whole.'
'That is disappointing.'
Annabel was silent, then spoke of another matter as they walked up
from the lake.
This Mr. Egremont had not the look of a man who finds his joy in the
life of Society. His clean-shaven face was rather bony, and its lines
expressed independence of character. His forehead was broad, his eyes
glanced quickly and searchingly, or widened themselves into an absent
gazing which revealed the imaginative temperament. His habitual cast
of countenance was meditative, with a tendency to sadness. In talk he
readily became vivacious; his short sentences, delivered with a very
clear and conciliating enunciation, seemed to indicate energy. It was a
peculiarity that he very rarely smiled, or perhaps I should say that he
had the faculty of smiling only with his eyes. At such moments his look
was very winning, very frank in its appeal to sympathy, and compelled
one to like him. Yet, at another time, his aspect could be shrewdly
critical; it was so when Annabel fell short of enthusiasm in speaking of
the book he had recommended to her when last at Ullswater. Probably
he was not without his share of scepticism. For all that, it was the
visage of an idealist.
Annabel led him into the house and to the study door, at which she
knocked; then she stood aside for him to enter before her. Mr.
Newthorpe was writing; he looked up absently, but light gathered in his
eyes as he recognised the visitor.
'So here you are! We talked of you this morning. How have you come?'
'On foot from Pooley Bridge.'
They clasped hands, then Egremont looked behind him; but Annabel
had closed the door and was gone.
She went up to the room in which Paula sat scribbling letters.
'Ten minutes more!' exclaimed that young lady. 'I'm just finishing a
note to mamma--so dutiful!'
'Have you written to Mr. Egremont?'
Paula nodded and laughed.
'He is downstairs.'

Paula started, looking incredulous.
'Really, Bell?'
'He has just walked over from Pooley Bridge.'
'Oh, Bell, do tell me! Have those horrid measles left any trace? I really
can't discover any, but of course one hasn't good eyes for one's own
little speckles. Well, at all events, everybody hasn't forgotten me. But
do look at me, Bell.'
Her cousin regarded her with conscientious gravity.
'I see no trace whatever; indeed, I should say you are looking better
than you ever did.'
'Now that's awfully kind of you. And you don't pay compliments, either.
Shall I go down? Did you tell him where I was?'
Had Annabel been disposed to dainty feminine malice, here was an
opportunity indeed. But she looked at Paula with simple curiosity,
seeming for a moment to lose herself. The other had to repeat her
question.
'I mentioned that you were in the house,' she replied. 'He is talking with
father.'
Paula moved to the door, but suddenly paused and turned.
'Now I wonder what thought you have in your serious head?' she said,
merrily. 'It's only my fun, you know.'
Annabel nodded, smiling.
'But it is only my fun. Say you believe me. I shall be cross with you if
you put on that look.'
They went into the morning room. Annabel stood at the window; her
companion flitted about, catching glimpses of herself in reflecting
surfaces. In five minutes the study door opened, and men's voices drew
near.
Egremont met Miss Tyrrell with the manner of an old acquaintance, but
unsmiling.
'I am fortunate enough to see you well again without having known of
your illness,' he said.
'You didn't know that I was ill?'
Paula looked at him dubiously. He explained, and, in doing so, quite
dispelled the girl's illusion that he was come on her account. When she
remained silent, he said:
'You must pity the people in London.'

'Certainly I do. I'm learning to keep my temper and