Isabel looked at her companion.  His eyes were still on the ground.  Pale, silent, motionless, he waited by her like a dog, until she gave the signal of walking on again towards the house.

“You are not angry with me for speaking to Mr. Hardyman?” she asked, anxiously.

He lifted his head it the sound of her voice.  “Angry with you, my dear! why should I be angry?”

“You seem so changed, Robert, since we met Mr. Hardyman.  I couldn’t help speaking to him—­could I?”

“Certainly not.”

They moved on towards the villa.  Isabel was still uneasy.  There was something in Moody’s silent submission to all that she said and all that she did which pained and humiliated her.  “You’re not jealous?” she said, smiling timidly.

He tried to speak lightly on his side.  “I have no time to be jealous while I have your affairs to look after,” he answered.

She pressed his arm tenderly.  “Never fear, Robert, that new friends will make me forget the best and dearest friend who is now at my side.”  She paused, and looked up at him with a compassionate fondness that was very pretty to see.  “I can keep out of the way to-morrow, when Mr. Hardyman calls,” she said.  “It is my aunt he is coming to see—­not me.”

It was generously meant.  But while her mind was only occupied with the present time, Moody’s mind was looking into the future.  He was learning the hard lesson of self-sacrifice already.  “Do what you think is right,” he said quietly; “don’t think of me.”

They reached the gate of the villa.  He held out his hand to say good-by.

“Won’t you come in?” she asked.  “Do come in!”

“Not now, my dear.  I must get back to London as soon as I can.  There is some more work to be done for you, and the sooner I do it the better.”

She heard his excuse without heeding it.

“You are not like yourself, Robert,” she said.  “Why is it?  What are you thinking of?”

He was thinking of the bright blush that overspread her face when Hardyman first spoke to her; he was thinking of the invitation to her to see the stud-farm, and to ride the roan mare; he was thinking of the utterly powerless position in which he stood towards Isabel and towards the highly-born gentleman who admired her.  But he kept his doubts and fears to himself.  “The train won’t wait for me,” he said, and held out his hand once more.

She was not only perplexed; she was really distressed.  “Don’t take leave of me in that cold way!” she pleaded.  Her eyes dropped before his, and her lips trembled a little.  “Give me a kiss, Robert, at parting.”  She said those bold words softly and sadly, out of the depth of her pity for him.  He started; his face brightened suddenly; his sinking hope rose again.  In another moment the change came; in another moment he understood her.  As he touched her cheek with his lips, he turned pale again.  “Don’t quite forget me,” he said, in low, faltering tones—­and left her.