Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/476

 refused his host's hospitable offer of refreshment, and was steering Grey Plover through the oaks at the end of the avenue by the time George had rejoined his wife and Florian on the terrace. Walking back, the latter smiled and shook his head. He was thinking, perhaps, how his neighbour's loyalty was leavened with a strong disinclination to exertion, and no little indulgence for those whose political opinions differed from his own.

But the smile clouded over as he approached the terrace. Together again—always together! and in such earnest conversation. He could see his wife's white hands waving with the pretty trick of gesticulation he loved so dearly. What could they have to say? what could she have to say that demanded so much energy? If he might only have heard. She was talking about himself; praising his horsemanship, his strength, his courage, his manly character, in the fond, deprecatory way that a woman affects when speaking of the man she loves. Every word the sweet lips uttered made Florian wince and quiver, yet her husband, striding heavily up the terrace-steps, almost wished that he could change places with the Jesuit priest.

The latter left her side when Sir George approached; and Cerise, who was conscious of something in her husband's manner that wounded her feelings and jarred upon her pride, assumed a colder air and a reserved bearing, not the least natural to her character, but of late becoming habitual. Everything conspired to increase the distance between two hearts that ought to have been knit together by bonds no misunderstanding nor want of confidence should ever have been able to divide.

Sir George, watching his wife closely, addressed himself to Florian—

"Bad news!" said he, whereat she started and changed colour. "But not so bad as it might have been. The hounds are on the scent, my friend. I told you I expected it long ago, and if the fox breaks cover now, as Sir Marmaduke would say, they will run into him as sure as fate. Halloa, man! what ails you? You never used to hoist the white ensign thus, when we cleared for action!"

The Jesuit's discomposure was so obvious as to justify his host's astonishment. Florian felt, indeed, like a man