“Yes, I see. I don’t want to humiliate myself either.”
“We’ll wait a day, anyhow. And, now, John, let’s think no more about them! Oh, well, that’s nonsense; but let’s enjoys ourselves as well as we can.”
They managed to enjoy themselves very well. The town was new to Mary, and John found a pleasure in showing it off to her. After a morning of sight-seeing, they drove in the Bois, and ended the day at the theatre. Miss Bussey, unfortunately, was no better. She had sent for an English doctor and he talked vaguely about two or three days in bed. Mary ventured to ask whether her aunt could travel.
“Oh, if absolutely necessary, perhaps; but much better not,” was the answer.
Well, it was not absolutely necessary yet, for no letter and no telegram arrived. This was the awful fact that greeted them when they came in from the theatre.
“We’ll wire the first thing to-morrow,” declared John, in a resolute tone. “Write yours to-night, Mary, and I’ll give, them to the porter—”
“Oh, not mine, please,” cried Mary, in shrinking bashfulness. “I can’t let the porter see mine!”
“Well, then, we’ll take them out before breakfast to-morrow.”
To this Mary agreed, and they sat down and wrote their dispatches. While they were so engaged Laing jumped out of a cab and entered the room. He seized an English paper, and, flinging himself into a chair, began to study the sporting news. Presently he stole a glance at Mary. It so chanced that just at the same moment she was stealing a glance at him. Mary dropped her eyes with a blush; Laing withdrew behind his paper.
“Shy, of course. Anybody would be,” he thought, with a smile.