She clapped her hands, tore it into tiny pieces, and threw it in the basket. Then she said, in a low voice of deep gratitude—
"Oh, Harry, you are sweet! Do forgive me."
"I don't see that there's anything to forgive," said Harry.
"Yes, there is; lots. I'm afraid I've been horrid. I'll never bother you about any thing again."
She was simply beaming.
"Good," answered Harry indifferently.
But as he followed her into the garden he looked rather perplexed. He felt that this sort of thing was not leading up very well to what he would have to tell her soon. However, why spoil a lovely day by thinking of it?
Like a schoolboy with his holiday task before him, he put it off as long as possible.
Though he didn't own it to himself, and was disdainfully amused at Alec's letter, still the thought of Algie Thynne, moonlight nights on the yacht, topping weather, and his own neglect, gave him some cause for alarm. Algie Thynne was criblé with debts, and probably keen on marrying for money. Contemptible young ass! Why didn't he work? Harry despised him.
At the earliest opportunity (which, by the way, did not arise until he had made an excuse to go into the village, where he wrote at the post office) the answer was sent.