Richard looked in. There stood Gertrude with her back to him, bending apart with her hands a couple of tall flowering plants, and looking through the glazed partition behind them. Advancing a step, and glancing over the young girl's shoulder, Richard had just time to see Severn mounting his horse at the stable door, before Gertrude, startled by his approach, turned hastily round. Her face was flushed hot, and her eyes brimming with tears.
"You!" she exclaimed, sharply.
Richard's head swam. That single word was so charged with cordial impatience that it seemed the death-knell of his hope. He stepped inside the room and closed the door, keeping his hand on the knob.
"Gertrude," he said, "you love that man!"
"Well, sir?"
"Do you confess it?" cried Richard.
"Confess it? Richard Clare, how dare you use such language? I'm in no humor for a scene. Let me pass."
Gertrude was angry; but as for Richard, it may almost be said that he was mad. "One scene a day is enough, I suppose," he cried. "What are these tears about? Wouldn't he have you? Did he refuse you, as you refused me? Poor Gertrude!"
Gertrude looked at him a moment with concentrated scorn. "You fool!" she said, for all answer.
