346 The Real Charlotte. 



" Not if they don't want to," replied Francie, holding her 

 own, with something of her habitual readiness. 



Hawkins' powers of repartee weakened a little before this 

 retort. " No, I suppose not," he said, trying to make up 

 by bitterness of tone for want of argument. 



Francie was silent, triumphantly silent, it seemed to him, 

 as he walked beside her and switched off the drooping heads 

 of the bluebells with his stick. He had experiences that 

 might have taught him that this appetite for combat, this 

 determination to trample on him, was a more measurable 

 thing than the contempt that will not draw a sword ; but he 

 was able to think of nothing except that she was unkind to 

 him, and that she was prettier now than he had ever seen 

 her. He was so thoroughly put out that he was not aware 

 of any awkwardness in the silence that had progressed, un- 

 broken, for a minute or two. It was Francie to whom it 

 was apparently most trying, as, at length, with an obvious 

 effort at small talk, she said : 



" I suppose that's Captain Cursiter coming up the lake?" 

 indicating, through an opening in the branches, a glimpse 

 of a white funnel and its thong of thinly streaming vapour \ 

 " he seems as fond of boating as ever." 



" Yes, I daresay he is," said Hawkins, without pretend- 

 ing any interest, real or polite, in the topic. He was in the 

 frame of mind that lies near extravagance of some kind, 

 whether of temper or sentiment, and, being of a disposition 

 not versed in self-repression, he did not attempt diplomacy. 

 He looked sulkily at the launch, and then, with a shock of 

 association, he thought of the afternoon that he and Francie 

 had spent on the lake, and the touch of unworthiness that 

 there was in him made him long to remind her of her sub- 

 jugation. 



*' Are you as fond of boating as — as you were when we 

 ran aground last year?" he said, and looked at her 

 daringly. 



He was rewarded by seeing her start perceptibly and turn 

 her head away, and he had the grace to feel a little ashamed 

 of himself. Francie looked down the bluebell slope till 

 her eyes almost ached with the soft glow of colour, conscious 

 that every moment of delay in answering told against her, 

 but unable to find the answer. The freedom and impert- 



