We came to a stand again, and I got down.
“Goodbye,” I said.
She nodded at me, but said nothing. A second later the carriage was tearing down the road, and the little groom hanging on for dear life.
Of course, it’s all nonsense. She’s not the least suited to him; she’d make him miserable, and then be miserable herself. But it seems a little perverse, doesn’t it? In fact, twice at least between the courses at dinner I caught myself being sorry for her. It is, when you think of it, so remarkably perverse.
A MATTER OF DUTY
Lady Mickleham is back from her honeymoon. I mean young Lady Mickleham—Dolly Foster (well, of course I do. Fancy the Dowager on a honeymoon!) She signified the fact to me by ordering me to call on her at teatime; she had, she said, something which she wished to consult me about confidentially. I went.
“I didn’t know you were back,” I observed.
“Oh, we’ve been back a fortnight, but we went down to The Towers. They were all there, Mr. Carter.”
“All who?”