“My step-mother; she took you for the family ghost—I believe she is screeching still.”
Two miles were soon devoured by the cart mare’s hairy legs, and as Hegan drew up at the back gate of Clonallon, he said:
“Good-bye, Miss de Lisle. We met an hour ago, and I feel as if we had known one another for years. You are my starter, and I hope I may do you credit.”
“I’m afraid you must think me frightfully audacious and interfering. My mother says I am impulsive and headlong, and do rash, unexpected things. Oh, I hope I have not been extra foolish and meddlesome. Do let me hear how you get on. Will you write?”
“If I may,” he answered, secretly amazed.
“2,000, Charles Street, Mayfair. Good-bye and good luck.” She held out her hand, then darted up the avenue, and was lost to sight.
Luckily the motor relayed by the fog had not yet returned, and Vera had time to don an evening frock, and sink into a chair, novel in hand, before the party arrived full of explanations and apologies.
Three days later Miss de Lisle received a note written on cheap paper, in a fine bold style:
“I have joined the Blueskin Lancers, and as soon as I am through riding school go out to India with a draft. I enclose the identical King’s Shilling for your acceptance, and remain,
“Yours faithfully,
“D. Hegan, Trooper.”