She met his languorous gaze without embarrassment,—while the childlike openness of her regard confused and slightly shamed him.
"Admire me? Oh yes!" she said somewhat plaintively. "It is that of which I am so weary! Because God has made one pleasant in form and face,—to be stared at and whispered about, and have all one's dresses copied!—all that is so small and common and mean, and does vex me so much!"
"It is the penalty you pay for being beautiful," said Sir Francis slowly, wondering within himself at the extraordinary incongruity of a feminine creature who was actually tired of admiration.
She made no reply—the wheel went round faster than before. Presently Lennox set aside his emptied cup, and drawing his chair a little closer to hers, asked—
"When does Errington return?"
"I cannot tell you," she answered. "He said that he might be late. Mr. Neville is with him."
There was another silence. "Lady Errington," said Sir Francis abruptly—"pray excuse me—I speak as a friend, and in your interests,—how long is this to last?"
The wheel stopped. She raised her eyes,—they were grave and steady.
"I do not understand you," she returned quietly. "What is it that you mean?"
He hesitated—then went on, with lowered eyelids and a half-smile.