“I loved you the moment you laid your hand on Zephyr’s bridle and looked up into my face,” she murmured, nestling closer to him, and letting her hand steal into his. “I really wanted to obey you as soon as you spoke to me, but I suppose a spirit of perversity urged me the other way. When you were wounded, I was in an agony of anxiety and remorse; otherwise, I should never have dared to bring you to the house. But all that about our not being equals is done away with now. It is true that I am Sir Philip Cranstoun’s daughter, but my mother was his first wife, and she was nothing more than a beautiful gypsy, brought up on charity by a rich lady. So you see,” she added, triumphantly, “it is all the other way round, and _I_ am not good enough for _you_!” He was silent for a few moments. “Have you told Lord Carthew what you have told me?” he asked at length. “No. But I mean to. He will soon take back his offer, then.” “His offer?” he repeated, in surprise. “Has he made you an offer, then?” “Yes. Didn’t you know? Oh, of course, I have never had an opportunity of telling you. Lord Carthew asked me to marry him while we were out riding yesterday morning.” “What did you say?” “I--oh--I said I would think about it, or something of that sort.” “You did not say ‘No’ outright?”--in a disappointed tone. “Stella, was all that before, or _after_, I woke up and saw you?” “Oh, how can you ask me? It was _before_, of course?” “And you were ready to marry Carthew at the time?” “Don’t--don’t--be hard on me, and don’t look so stern and cold. How can I make you understand? You had said things against me that I had overheard. I believed, I really and truly believed, that you couldn’t bear me. And it made me mad with myself to find that I couldn’t keep you out of my thoughts for one minute. It seemed so dreadful--so forward and unwomanly--to be always thinking of a man who cared nothing for me. Then, too, you must remember that I longed with all my heart to escape from the Chase. You don’t know what our lives have been, poor mamma’s and mine, ever since I can remember. Lord Carthew knows----” “Oh, Lord Carthew knows?” interrupting her, jealously. “You could confide in _him_, but not in me.” She looked at him very sweetly for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “Dear Hilary,” she said, “remember that it is only two days since we first met, and that this is the first chance of a real talk we have had together. Whereas Lord Carthew and I----” “You have had many interesting talks, I have no doubt,” he said, morosely, his handsome face clouding. “He is far cleverer than I, and can talk well on any subject. The wonder is that you don’t prefer him to me.” “Isn’t it?” she assented, demurely, rubbing her cheeks softly against his coat-sleeve. “But there is no accounting for tastes, and--it may be my mad gypsy origin--but I decidedly prefer _you_.”