NOT a word about Dick Maurice was spoken that first evening.
Twice Doris tried to bring him forward, and was rebuffed,—very kindly, yet decidedly. She could not resolve to do it again. She seemed to be under a spell; able only to bask in the sunshine of home, in the loving welcome from all sides.
And though she thought of her lover continually, yet in a manner he was pushed to the background of her mind. Switzerland already began to look far off. Her feelings had become mixed and indefinite. She had almost the sensations of a naughty child, come back to be good.
Everybody and everything had to be seen,—servants, neighbours, friends, household pets. The hours slipped fast away; and while much talk went on, it was talk mainly of Lynnbrooke interests. Mrs. Winton left no space for aught else. Doris was amply posted in local news; and the name "Stirling" came up perpetually.
When she went to bed, it was to dream of Dick. They were on the Glückhorn together; just he and she. Once more she was trying to climb to the rescue. Details differed, as they are apt to do in a dream; and the rock-wall of her sleeping fancy would have been ludicrous in the eyes of an Alpinist; but to her it seemed natural enough. In dreamland nothing is absurd. She mounted the rocks, reached Maurice, and then, as he clasped her hand, she found him to be—not Dick, but Hamilton Stirling, in frock coat and kid gloves, solemn and dignified. The rocky height vanished; and he and she were on a high road; and he pulled a printed slip out of his pocket, offering it for her inspection.
She woke up, and had a laugh; yet she felt disgust with herself for having reverted in thought to the latter, even in slumber. "As if I had anything to do with him now! Oh, how curious life is! Everything seems such a muddle."
Further sleep proved impossible; and she lay long, thinking, thinking, about affairs in general, and about Maurice in particular. After breakfast she went into the garden, and enjoyed herself among the flowers, watching the bees at work, feeding her pigeons, anxious for and yet shrinking from the decisive talk, which could not be much longer delayed.
"Dick must be in such dreadful suspense," she thought. "I rather wish now that I had not asked him to wait. It is better to have things settled straight off. But anyhow, he won't be later than to-morrow. I know why mother will not speak in a hurry. She thinks she will give me time to get over my fancy. If it were no more than that—but it isn't. It is much, much more! My dear, dear Dick! If only his people were different! But that isn't his fault; and it doesn't alter in the least what he is in himself."
Sauntering indoors, she found Mrs. Winton in the morning-room, busy with needlework, but evidently on the look-out for her daughter. Doris sat down, slowly pulled off her garden gloves, and said—
"Mother, we've got to speak."