"I shall settle that. It's entirely for my sake we're going, you know, so I shall have my choice."
"It sounds as if you might enjoy yourself, Mr. Mead."
"Yes, quite, doesn't it?" he answered, laughing. Ora joined in his laugh; the world was no longer harsh; Lord Bowdon was nothing; there were no more reminiscences of the way Jack Fenning used to talk. There was frolic, there was a touch of adventure, a savour of mischief.
"It'll be rather fun," she mused softly, clasping her hands on her knee.
Behind the man's restrained bearing lay a sense of triumph. He had carried out his little campaign well. He did not look ahead, the success of the hour served. No doubt after that Sunday other things would happen again, and might even be of importance; meanwhile except that Sunday there was nothing. Merely that she came was not all—with her was not even very much. But he knew that her heart was eager to come, and that the Sunday was a joy to her also.
"It's dinner-time," she said, springing up. "Go away, Mr. Mead."
He was as obedient as Bowdon had been; enough had been done for to-day. But a farewell may be said in many ways.
"Sunday, then," he said, taking both her hands which she had held out to him in her cordial fashion. Lady Kilnorton said that Ora always seemed to expect to be kissed. "Just manner, of course," she would add, since Ora was her friend.
"Yes, Sunday—unless I change my mind. I often do."
"You won't this time." The assertion had not a shred of question about it; it was positive and confident.