"I hope you are better," says Mr. Frere, advancing, and looking at her very kindly. "We were afraid———"
"I thought," she says, glancing about with dilated sapphire blue eyes, "that I saw———"
Paul steps forward out of the shadow. "I am here," he says, quietly. "I hope you have received no hurt?"
I had thought these two were lovers, but they cannot be: his voice is as cold and indifferent as though he were speaking to Pim. She looks up at him, and her lips quiver, like a beautiful child that seeks love and is given a blow; under the look he winces and turns away. She is very young, not more than eighteen, I think; and somehow, down in my heart, though why or wherefore I cannot tell, I am sorry for her.
"My dear," says good Mr. Frere, "are you sure that you are quite recovered?"
'Quite," she says, standing up and giving him such a bright, winsome smile that the middle-aged man blushes up to his ears, pleased as any schoolboy. "I must have been very careless, for Dandy never gave me a fall before."
"It is fortunate we were at the gate," he says, "and that my nephew was able to be of some assistance."
"Your nephew!" she says, staring at him; "is Paul Vasher your nephew?"
"You know him?" exclaims Mr. Frere. "My dear boy, why did you not tell me so?"
"We have met before," she says, looking at Paul; "that is all."
"I beg your pardon," says Paul, coming forward. "Allow me, Miss Fleming, to introduce my uncle, Mr. Frere, to you. This young lady, sir, is Miss Fleming."
"Lady Flytton's niece?" asks Mr. Frere, as the girl lays her lovely slim hand in his; then we are near neighbours!"
