"Very considerate of you, sir; and thanks! But I'm not so poor, that it
will be impossible for me to replace it by one of like value."
Foiled, he drew back his hand; now with no alternative but to keep the
token he cared not for.
"Since you are so generous, Mademoiselle, I accept your gift with
gratitude."
Even the cold formality of this speech failed to dispel the illusion she
had been all the night labouring under. Unused to discomfiture of any
kind, she thought not of defeat in the game of passion she was playing.
"Oh! it's nothing to be grateful for," she lightly rejoined. "Only your
due for rescuing me from the pursuing enemy. Ha-ha-ha!"
He was about to stow the favour under the breast of his doublet, when he
saw her glance go up to the crown of his hat, over which still waved the
feathers of the egret, plucked by the base of Ruardean hill.
"Perhaps you wouldn't care to carry it there?" she said, half jestingly.
"It might spoil the look of that pretty plume."
He was doubly perplexed now. To place the glove in his hat meant
letting it remain there, meant more--a symbol to show that the giver of
it was esteemed beyond all others. And that in her case would not be
true. Besides, what would _she_ say--what think--whose favour, not
proffered but asked for, was already there? Despite all the
contrarieties of the night, Eustace Trevor was not prepared to break
with Vaga Powell by offering her such a slight--an insult. With much to
make him sad and angry, he was neither sad nor angry enough for
retaliation as that. Sure, moreover, to recoil upon himself--a
reflection which needed no other to determine him.
But the challenge had been thrown out, and called for instant response--
a yes or a no. Subterfuge was no longer possible, even had it been of
his nature, and he resolved upon making a clean breast of it.
"Mademoiselle Lalande, however proud of the trophy you've been good
enough to bestow on me, there's a reason why I cannot wear it as you
suggest?"
"A reason, indeed!" the voice in a tone half vexed, half surprise. "May
I know it?" Then, as if repenting the question, she quickly added, "Oh,
never mind! Give me back my glove, sir. Good-night!"
They, listening inside the pavilion, heard no more words, only the sound
of footsteps passing away; first light ones in rapid repetition; then
others heavier and slower; after which silence profound.