Irene was secretly vexed. At breakfast
she had suggested a whole day's excursion, which her friend
persuaded her to postpone; the reason must have been Helen's private
knowledge that Mr. March was coming. In consequence, the lunch fell
short of perfect cheerfulness. For reasons of her own, Irene was
just a little formal in her behaviour to the guest; she did not talk
so well as usual, and bore herself as a girl must who wishes,
without unpleasantness, to check a man's significant approaches.
In the hot afternoon, chairs were taken out into the shadow of the
Castle walls, and there the three sat conversing. Someone drew near,
a man, whom the careless glance of Helen's cousin took for a casual
tourist about to view the ruins. Helen herself, and in the same
moment, Irene, recognised Piers Otway. It seemed as though Mrs.
Borisoff would not rise to welcome him; her smile was dubious, half
surprised. She cast a glance at Irene, whose face was set in the
austerest self-control, and thereupon not only stood up, but stepped
forward with cordial greeting.
"So you have really come! Delighted to see you! Are you walking--
as you said?"
"Too hot!" Piers replied, with a laugh. "I spent yesterday at York,
and came on in a cowardly way by train."
He was shaking hands with Irene, who dropped a word or two of mere
courtesy. In introducing him to March, Mrs. Borisoff said, "An old
friend of ours," which caused her stalwart cousin to survey the
dark, slimly-built man very attentively.
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