In May Miss Arden wrote to beg Elizabeth to come and see her soon. Elizabeth did not want to go at all, but she replied that she would love to come to the Boltons for a week if Aunt Anne would have her. It was not Elizabeth-Anne who wrote that letter, but herself, in the spirit of coquetry that had come to her.

She told Stephen of the invitation, and demurely asked, Can I go?

Stephen sat up very straight in his chair; through her lashes she watched a blank look come into his face.

“But, ’Lisbeth, when I asked you to come to town with me last month, you refused!”

“I feel different now, you see,” she explained. “I’d like to see Auntie and Father again. Besides the chicks were too young to be left last month.”

“Damn the chickens!” Stephen growled.

Elizabeth played with her wedding-ring.

“I won’t go if you’d—if you’d rather I stayed. If—if you—want me.”

He squared his shoulders; the frown went out of his eyes.

“No. Of course you must go if you feel you’d like to. Only—how long will it be, Elizabeth?”

“Not more than a week,” she assured him.

“Not more—! Yes, of course. I—I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, darling.”

She rose, looking strangely down at him. She was near to stamping her foot at his density.

“When do you depart?” Stephen asked, with studied coolness.

“The day after to-morrow,” Elizabeth replied.

There was a pause.

“I see. You might look the Mater up while you’re in town. Not unless you want to, of course.”

“Sometimes,” Elizabeth said breathlessly, “I’d—I’d like to hit you!”

He got up, slowly.

“What have I done? Why are you fed up with me? I didn’t know that I’d—”

“You haven’t done anything,” Elizabeth answered:. “You don’t.”

He was puzzled and anxious.

“Don’t? Elizabeth, what is it? Please tell me! What’s the matter?”

She gave a funny little laugh that was also a sob.

“You—you silly old thing, Stephen! Nothing’s the matter. Nothing at all!”

He took a. step towards her, but she turned quickly and fled.

Ten minutes later, from her bedroom window, she saw him stride away across the fields, with his hands deep in the pockets of his old shooting jacket and his head bare to the spring breezes.

She watched him go, the dogs leaping about him, and her heart swelled with pride of his fine shoulders and great height, and the even swing of his walk. She blew him a kiss from the tips of her fingers. He was hers; her man, clever and stupid, strong and so weak.

“Stephen!” she said softly. “I love you, I love you!”

But she went away on Thursday to stay with her father.

Chapter Thirty-Two