The Real Charlotte. i6i 



of charm. Christopher knew every detail of it by heart. 

 He had often solaced himself with it when, as now, he had 

 led forth visitors to see the view, and had discerned their 

 boredom with a keenness that was the next thing to 

 sympathy ; he had lain there on quiet Autumn evenings, 

 and tried to put into fitting words the rapture and the 

 despair of the sunset, and had gone home wondering if his 

 emotions were not mere self-conscious platitudes, rather 

 more futile and contemptible than the unambitious adjec- 

 tives, or even the honest want of mterest, of the average 

 sight-seer. He waited rather curiously to see whether Miss 

 Fitzpatrick's problematic soul would here utter itself. From 

 his position a little behind her he could observe her without 

 seeming to do so ; she was looking down the lake with a 

 more serious expression than he had yet seen on her face, 

 and when she turned suddenly towards him, there was a 

 wistfulness in her eyes that startled him. 



" Mr. Dysart," she began, rather more shyly than usual ; 

 •' d'ye know whose is that boat with the httle sail, going 

 away down the lake now ? " 



Christopher's mood received an unpleasant jar. 



•' That's Mr. Hawkins' punt," he replied shortly. 



"Yes, I thought it was," said Francie, too much pre- 

 occupied to notice the flatness of her companion's tone. 



There was another pause, and then she spoke again. 



" Mr. Dysart, d'ye think — would you mind telling me, 

 was Lady Dysart mad with me last night ? " She blushed 

 as she looked at him, and Christopher was much provoked 

 to feel that he also became red. 



" Last night ? " he echoed in a tone of as lively perplexity 

 as he could manage ; " what do you mean ? Why should 

 my mother be angry with you ? " In his heart he knew 

 well that Lady Dysart had been, as Francie expressed it, 

 "mad." 



"I know she was angry," pursued Francie. "I saw the 

 look she gave me when I was getting out of the brougham, 

 and then this morning she w^as angry too. I didn't think it 

 was any harm to sit in the brougham." 



" No more it is. I've often seen her do it herself." 



" Ah ! Mr. Dysart, I didn't think you'd make fun of me,'* 

 she said with an accent on the " you " that was flattering, 



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