“Have you seen my horse?”
“Yes; he must be in Ottinge by this time,” was the comforting rejoinder.
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“It would have wasted a lot of time, and I wanted to see what had happened to you.—I was afraid you’d had a spill.”
This was not the ever silent and respectful chauffeur to whom Miss Morven had been hitherto accustomed; but no less a person than Lieutenant Wynyard, late of the Red Hussars, who, in a cheery voice, addressed her as an equal—as no doubt he was. So be it. She instantly decided to abandon herself to the situation. Possibly he would now confide something about himself, and how and why he came to be in her aunts’ service. So, after a momentary hesitation, she replied—
“Oh no, I only got off to open a gate, and Rufus broke away. I suppose I shall have to walk home!”
To this Wynyard secretly and joyfully agreed, but merely said—
“I see you are alone.”
“Yes; father and I rode over to Shrapton-le-Steeple; he wanted to see Mr. Harnett, a literary friend, and Mr. Harnett had so much to show and to say that he persuaded father to stay and dine, as there is a moon, and I came home by the short-cut. I must be three miles from Ottinge?” and she halted and deliberately looked about her.
“Yes,” he replied; “a good three miles.”