Barbara had no pride. She spoke in the same tone to lord and tradesman. She had been the champion of the blacks in her own country, and in England looked lovingly on the gypsies in their little tents on the windy downs.
CHAPTER XVI. BARBARA AND RICHARD.
Hardly had Lestrange left the room, when Barbara entered, noiseless as a moth, which creature she somehow resembled at times: one observant friend came to see that she resembled all swift, gay, and gentle creatures in turn. She was in the same green dress which had favoured her concealment in the beech, and in which Richard had seen her afterward at the breakfast-table, but of which he had not since caught a glimmer. Her blue eyes—at times they seemed black, but they were blue—settled upon Richard the moment she entered, and resting on him seemed to lead her up to the table where he was at work.
“What have you done to make Arthur so angry?” she said, her manner as if they had known each other all their lives.
“What I am doing now, miss—making this book last a hundred years longer.”
“Why should you, if he doesn't want you to do it? The book is his!”
“He will be pleased enough by and by. It's only that he thinks I can't, and is afraid I shall ruin it.”
“Hadn't you better leave it then?”
“That would be to ruin it. I have gone too far for that.”