The Real Charlotte. 347 



inence of the question did not strike her at all ; she only 

 felt that he was heartlessly trying to humiliate her. 



*' I'd be obliged to you, Mr. Hawkins," she said, her 

 panting breath making her speak with extreme difficulty, " if 

 you'd leave me to walk by myself.'* 



Before she spoke he knew that he had made a tremendous 

 mistake, and, as she moved on at a quickened pace, he felt 

 he must make peace with her at any price. 



" Mrs. Lambert," he said, with a gravity and deference 

 which he had never shown to her before, ''is it any use to 

 beg your pardon? I didn't know what I was saying — I 

 hardly know now what I did say — but if it made you angry 

 or — or offended you, I can only say I'm awfully sorry." 



" Thank you, I don't want you to say anything," she 

 answered, still walking stiffly on. 



" If it would give you any pleasure, I swear I'll promise 

 never to speak to you again ! " Hawkins continued ; " shall 

 I go away now ? " His instinct told him to risk the 

 question. 



" Please yourself. It's nothing to me what you do." 



*' Then I'll stay—" 



Following on what he said, like an eldritch note of 

 exclamation, there broke in the shrill whistle of the Serpo- 

 lette as she turned into the bay of Bruff, and an answering 

 hail from Christopher rose to them, apparently from the 

 lower path by the shore of the lake. 



" That's Cursiter/' said Hawkins irritably \ " I suppose 

 we shall have to go back now." 



She turned, as if mechanically accepting the suggestion, 

 and, in the action, her eyes passed by him with a look that 

 was intended to have as little reference to him as the gaze 

 of a planet in its orbit, but which, even in that instant, was 

 humanised by avoidance. In the space of that glance, he 

 knew that his pardon was attainable, if not attained, but he 

 had cleverness enough to retain his expression of gloomy 

 compunction. 



It was quite true that Francie's anger, always pitiably 

 short-lived, had yielded to the flattery of his respect. Every 

 inner, unformed impulse was urging her to accept his 

 apology, when three impatient notes from the whistle of 

 the steam-launch came up through the trees, and seemed to 



