It was evident that Owen, or, rather, Mr. Wynyard, had made his peace and was reinstated in his proper niche in society. Why had he come to Lossiemouth? Why was Sir Richard looking at her so keenly with his little searching eyes? Why was Owen making himself so extremely agreeable to her aunt?—listening, with reverent sympathy, to a harrowing description of her neuralgia, and a still more harrowing account of the death of her beautiful prize blue Persian—run over by a motor in Eaton Place.
“Think of it! A motor—a motor going over a cat!”
“I’m afraid motors are no respecter of persons or cats. As to dogs, they are killed by the dozen.”
Mrs. Morven shuddered, sipped her claret, and turned the subject to books and fiction.
“I hope you have brought something fresh? Our stock is nearly exhausted.”
“I’m afraid not, only a couple of magazines; I was reading a thriller in the train. The worst of it is, that just as you become passionately interested and something tremendous is going to happen, you are choked off by a full-page advertisement of pills or boot polish. I like my fiction undiluted; don’t you?”
Aurea was amazed at this flow of conversation from the monosyllabic Owen. Evidently Owen was one individual, and Mr. Wynyard another. She was even more impressed by the quiet confidence of his manner. Had he noted her embarrassment and nervousness? Suddenly he turned to her, and said—
“And how is Ottinge, Miss Morven?”
The question was so unexpected that for an instant she could not find her voice; there seemed to be an obstruction in her throat, but she managed to reply—
“It is much as usual.”