Restless and unhappy he went down to the dining-room. His mother was in high spirits; Isabel still and indifferent. But it was Isabel who asked: "How much longer is Dora going to stay? The house is so lonely without her."
"The house has been peaceful and restful without her, and the noisy child. I am sure it has been a great relief," corrected Mrs. Campbell.
"I am anxious about Dora," said Robert with a touch of his most sullen temper, "she ought to have met me at Crewe, and did not do so. It was not like her."
"It was very like her. She is the most unreliable of women. I dare say we shall see her by the next train—perhaps we——"
"Mother, you are mistaken both about Dora and the train. Dora can always be depended on, and I waited for the next train, but she was not on it. After dinner I must telegraph to Bradford and elsewhere."
"Perfect nonsense! Let her alone, and she'll come home—no fear of it. She was, however, keen enough to get away—off before we had breakfast—and without a word to any one."
"Mother," corrected Isabel, "that was our fault. She came to bid us good-bye, but we neither of us spoke to her."
"Drop the subject," said Robert in a manner too positive to be disobeyed.
He himself dropped every subject, and finished his meal in a silence so eloquent, that no one had the spirit to break it. His mother looked at him indignantly, his sister kept her eyes on her plate, and ate with a noiseless deliberation, that was almost provoking. It was a most wretched meal.
"And all because that creature missed meeting him at Crewe," snorted the angry mother as her son left the room.