By all accounts he is a gallant scoundrel, with a nerve of
iron, whereas Crosby--Oh, no, whoever Galloping Hermit may be, he is
not Gilbert Crosby."
Lord Rosmore did not follow Barbara on to the terrace. He had made his
peace with her, and had succeeded in establishing a definite
understanding between them. She accepted his friendship--that counted
for a great deal with such a woman. It would be strange if he could not
turn it into love. Yet he was conscious that this was to be no easy
triumph, no opportunity must be neglected, and his busy brain was full
of schemes for bending circumstances to further his desires.
A little later, as he slowly crossed one of the stone bridges towards
the woods, he saw Barbara sitting on the terrace, and Sydney Fellowes
standing before her reading from sheets of paper in his hand.
"I cannot write verses to please her, that is certain," he mused. "She
cannot care for Fellowes, his eyes are not grey. It is this fellow
Crosby she thinks of, and of a highwayman, perhaps. A strange pair of
rivals, truly! Sydney Fellowes might be useful, besides--" Some
brilliant idea seemed to take sudden possession of him, for there was
excitement in his step as he crossed the bridge quickly and disappeared
into the woods beyond.
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