No; she assured herself that it was just a whim of Mr. Orme's, a
passing fancy and caprice which would soon be satisfied, and that he
would tire of it after a few days, perhaps hours. Of course, she was
wrong to humour the whim; but it had been hard to refuse him, hard to
seem churlish and obstinate after he had been so kind on the night her
father had frightened her by his sleep-walking; and it had been still
harder because she had been conscious of a certain pleasure in the
thought that she should see him again.

For the first time, as she went into the great silent house, she
realised how lonely her life was, how drear and uneventful. Now and
again, while cantering along the roads on the big chestnut, she had met
other girls riding and driving: the Vaynes, the Avorys, and the
Bannerdales; had heard them talking and laughing merrily and happily,
but it had never occurred to her to envy them, to reflect that she was
different to other girls who had friends and companions and girlish
amusements. She had been quite content--until now. And even now she was
not discontented; but this acquaintanceship which had sprung up so
strangely between her and Mr. Orme was like the touch of a warm hand
stretched out from the great world, and its sudden warmth awoke her to
the coldness, the dreariness of her life.