For some paces Wilton and his companion walked on in silence. He stole a glance at her face; it was composed and thoughtful. "I suppose you were not surprised by that apparition? Perhaps it was a choice of the smaller evil that induced you to adopt a _tête-à-tête_ with me, instead of with him?" He looked earnestly for her reply. "It was," she said, without raising her eyes to his. "He passed me just now in the dog-cart with another gentleman, and I thought it possible he might return; so, as you have always been kind and friendly, I thought I might ask you to come with me." Another pause ensued, for Wilton's heated imagination conjured up an array of serious annoyances deserving the severest castigation, and he scarcely dared trust himself to speak, so fearful was he of checking her confidence, or seeming to guess too much of the truth. At last he exclaimed, with a sort of suppressed vehemence that startled Miss Rivers into looking at him quickly, "By heaven, it is too bad that you should be bored, in your rare moments of freedom, with the idle chatter of that fellow." "It is a bore, but that is all. It amuses him to speak Italian with me"--an expression of superb disdain gleamed over her face for an instant, and left it quiet and grave. "Though wonderfully civil, even complimentary, he conveys, more than any one I ever met, the hatefulness of class distinctions." "I feel deeply thankful for the doubt you expressed just now that he belonged to the same race as myself." "You are quite different; but I dare say you have plenty of the prejudices peculiar to your caste." "I wish you would undertake my conversion. It might not be so difficult. Your denunciation of soldiers has rung in my ears--no--rather haunted my imagination ever since you showed me your sketch-book in that desolate waiting-room." "I remember," said she, gravely. "No, I shall never convert you; even if I wrote a political thesis for your benefit." After a short pause, she resumed abruptly, "Do you know, I fear poor Donald has not much of life before him?" "Indeed! What induces you to think so?" "He is so weak, and feverish, and sleepless. He often rings for me to read to him in the dead of the night. And then, with all his ill temper and selfishness, he has at times such gleams of noble thought, such flashes of intellectual light, that I cannot help feeling it is the flicker of the dying lamp. I shall be profoundly grieved when his sad, blighted life is over. No one knows him as I do; and no one cares for me as he does. I have ventured to speak to Lady Fergusson, but she cannot or will not see, and forbids my addressing Sir Peter on the subject." "And if this unfortunate boy dies, what is to become of you?" asked Wilton, too deeply interested to choose his words, yet a little apprehensive lest he might offend.