The Real Charlotte, 209 



" Because it's the loveliest hair I've ever seen," answered 

 Christopher, the words coming to his lips almost without his 

 volition, and in their utterance causing his heart to give one 

 or two unexpected throbs. 



" Oh ! " There was as much astonishment as pleasure 

 in the exclamation, and she became as red as fire. She 

 turned her head away, and looked back to see where Lam- 

 bert was. 



She had heard from Hawkins only this morning, asking 

 her for a piece of the hair that Christopher had called 

 lovely. She had cut off a little curl from the place he had 

 specified, near her temple, and had posted it to him this 

 very afternoon after Charlotte went out ; but all the things 

 that Hawkins had said of her hair did not seem to her so 

 wonderful as that Mr. Dysart should pay her a compli- 

 ment. 



Lambert was quite silent after he joined them. In his 

 heart he was cursing everything and everyone, the chestnut, 

 Christopher, Francie, and most of all himself, for having 

 said the things that he had said. All the good he had 

 done was to leave no doubt in Christopher's mind that 

 Hawkins was out of the running, and as for telling him that 

 Francie was a flirt, an ass like that didn't so much as know 

 the meaning of the word flirting. He knew now that he 

 had made a fool of himself, and the remembrance of that 

 disgusted expression on Christopher's face made his better 

 judgment return as barningly as the blood into veins 

 numbed with cold. At the cross-roads next before Bruff, he 

 broke in upon the exchange of experiences of the Dublin 

 theatres that was going on very enjoyably beside him. 



" I'm afraid we must part company here, Dysart," he said 

 in as civil a voice as he could muster ; " I want to speak to 

 a farmer who lives down this way." 



Christopher made his farewells, and rode slowly down 

 the hill towards Bruff". It was a hill that had been cut 

 down in the Famine, so that the fields on either side rose 

 high above its level, and the red poppies and yellowing corn 

 nodded into the sky over his head. The bay horse was 

 collecting himself for a final trot to the avenue gates^ when 

 he found himself stopped, and, after a moment of hesitation 

 on the part of his rider, was sent up the hill again a good 



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