Mrs. Cornwall coughed nervously, and replied, “Never mind all that now. Go into the drawing-room. I shall not intrude. Mind, you are to come to dinner.”
Tom passed onward without another word. The drawing-room was darkish, but he made out a slim white figure, that rose quickly at his entrance; ere he could distinguish more she was folded in his arms.
“Oh, Tom! dear Tom!” she exclaimed rapturously.
What voice was this? He drew back instinctively, and met Miss Browne’s cold grey eyes smiling up into his face; he glanced sharply round the room and faltered out, “Where—where is she—where is Lily?”
“Why, dearest? What an odd question! She is at home, of course, at Clifton.”
“Not—not—coming?” he stammered. As the awful situation assumed a mental shape his very blood seemed turned to ice.
“No—certainly not. We shall be far happier by ourselves, dear, and you said nothing about her—never named her.”
“Never named her?” Was he going stark staring mad?
“By-and-by we will have her out, and get her married, if we can!” and she laughed as much as to say, “Easier said than done!”
It was dusk—the expression of amazement, horror, and dismay which passed over Tom’s features during this remarkable scene were completely lost on Miss Browne. Happy Miss Browne!