suddenly called upon to play in an International Rugby match.
All along, from the very moment when—to his unbounded astonishment—she had accepted him, he had known that he was making a mistake; but he never realized it with such painful clearness as he did this evening. He was filled with a sort of blind terror. He cursed the fate which had taken him to the Charity-Bazaar at which he had first come under the notice of Lady Kimbuck. The fatuous snobbishness which had made him leap at her invitation to spend a few days at Evenwood Towers he regretted; but for that he blamed himself less. Further acquaintance with Lady Kimbuck had convinced him that if she had wanted him, she would have got him somehow, whether he had accepted or refused.
What he really blamed himself for was his mad proposal. There had been no need for it. True, Lady Eva had created a riot of burning emotions in his breast from the moment they met; but he should have had the sense to realize that she was not the right mate for him, even tho he might have a quarter of a million tucked away in gilt-edged securities. Their lives could not possibly mix. He was a commonplace young man with a fondness for the pleasures of the people. He liked cheap papers, picture-palaces, and Association football. Merely to think of Association football in connection with her was enough to make the folly of his conduct clear. He ought to have been content to worship her from afar as some inaccessible goddess.
A light step outside the door made his heart stop beating.
“I've just looked in to say good night, Mr.—er—Roland,” she said, holding out her hand. “Do excuse me. I've got such a headache.”
“Oh, yes, rather; I'm awfully sorry.”
If there was one person in the world Roland despised and hated at that moment, it was himself.
“Are you going out with the guns to-morrow?” asked Lady Eva languidly.
“Oh, yes, rather! I mean, no. I'm afraid I don't shoot.”
The back of his neck began to glow. He had no illusions about himself. He was the biggest ass in Christendom.
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