Mr. Brooke seemed inclined to say more, but he did not. His pale features writhed with suppressed agitation. Then a light footfall outside became audible, and he abruptly quitted the room. A lady’s voice could be heard alternating with his in the passage, and both receded.
Joan held out her hand to Mrs. St. John, with a brief “Good-bye.”
“You must not think too much of Mr. Brooke’s ways. He is rather a singular character,” said Mrs. St. John, half apologetically. “Must you really leave? Well, I can lend you cloaks and umbrellas; and the rain is not quite so heavy.”
Joan would have spurned the offered wraps, but for Nessie’s sake. It was with difficulty that she could be persuaded to take a waterproof for herself, and she was in an agony of impatience to be off, hardly able to endure Nessie’s slow fumbling over buttons. Mr. Brooke remained absent, and Mrs. St. John no longer pressed for a lengthened stay.
The two set off at express train speed, Joan racing Nessie almost out of breath. Nessie submitted for a while, and then had to protest. Joan went a little more slowly, but kept grim silence all the way, till within the garden of Woodleigh Hall.
“That dreadful old man!” broke from her at length.
“Mr. Brooke? He was rather funny,” said Nessie. “I couldn’t understand quite what he meant. But do you know, Joan I thought him a little like you—in face, I mean. He has just your—”
“Nessie—if you dare!” cried Joan furiously.
Nessie gazed sideways at her companion in astonishment.
“Why, Joan!”