The distinction was flattering. Nancy yielded
to the charm of his voice and conversed freely.
It began to seem not impossible that he found some
pleasure in her society. Now and then he dropped
a word that made her pulses flutter; his eyes were
constantly upon her face.
‘Don’t you go off into the country sometimes?’
he inquired, when she had turned homewards.
‘We are thinking of having a drive to-day.’
‘And I shall most likely have a ride; we may
meet.’
Nancy ordered a carriage for the afternoon, and with
her friends drove up the Teign valley; but they did
not meet Tarrant. But next morning he joined
them on the pier, and this time Jessica had no choice
but to present him to her mother. Nancy felt annoyed
that this should have come about; Tarrant, she supposed,
would regard poor Mrs. Morgan with secret ridicule.
Yet, if that were his disposition, he concealed it
perfectly; no one could have behaved with more finished
courtesy. He seated himself by Mrs. Morgan, and
talked with her of the simplest things in a pleasant,
kindly humour. Yesterday, so he made known, he
had ridden to Torquay and back, returning after sunset.
This afternoon he was going by train to Exeter, to
buy some books.
Again he strolled about with Nancy, and talked of
idle things with an almost excessive amiability.
As the girl listened, a languor crept upon her, a
soft and delicious subdual of the will to dreamy luxury.
Her eyes were fixed on the shadows cast by her own
figure and that of her companion. The black patches
by chance touched. She moved so as to part them,
and then changed her position so that they touched
again—so that they blended.
Nancy had written to her father, a short letter but
affectionate, begging him to let her know whether
the improvement in his health, of which he had spoken
before she left home, still continued. The answer
came without delay. On the whole, said Mr. Lord,
he was doing well enough; no need whatever to trouble
about him. He wrote only a few lines, but closed
with ‘love to you, my dear child,’ an unwonted
effusiveness.
At the same time there came a letter from Horace.
‘You will be surprised,’ it began, ’at
the address I write from. As you know, I had
planned to go to Brighton; but on the day before my
holiday commenced I heard from F. F., saying that she
and Mrs. Peachey had had a quarrel, and she was tired
of Brighton, and was coming home. So I waited
a day or two, and then, as I had half promised, I
went to see Mrs. D. We had a long talk, and it ended
in my telling her about F., and all the row there’s
been. Perhaps you will think I had better have
kept it to myself, but Mrs. D. and I are on first-rate
terms, and she seems to understand me better than any
one I ever met. We talked about my holiday, and
she persuaded me to come to Scarborough, where she
herself was going for a week or two. It’s
