“Indeed? Then you have discussed the question with her?”
Cashel was about to speak, when a servant entered to say that Miss Carew was in the library, and begged that they would come to her as soon as they were quite disengaged. When the maid withdrew he said, eagerly,
“I wish you’d go home, mamma, and let me catch her in the library by herself. Tell me where you live, and I’ll come in the evening and tell you all about it. That is, if you have no objection.”
“What objection could I possibly have, dearest one? Are you sure that you are not spoiling your chance by too much haste? She has no occasion to hurry, Cashel, and she knows it.”
“I am dead certain that now is my time or never. I always know by instinct when to go in and finish. Here’s your mantle.”
“In such a hurry to get rid of your poor old mother, Cashel?”
“Oh, bother! you’re not old. You won’t mind my wanting you to go for this once, will you?”
She smiled affectionately, put on her mantle, and turned her cheek towards him to be kissed. The unaccustomed gesture alarmed him; he retreated a step, and involuntary assumed an attitude of self-defence, as if the problem before him were a pugilistic one. Recovering himself immediately, he kissed her, and impatiently accompanied her to the house door, which he closed softly behind her, leaving her to walk in search of her carriage alone. Then he stole up-stairs to the library, where he found Lydia reading.
“She’s gone,” he said.
Lydia put down her book, looked up at him, saw what was coming, looked down again to hide a spasm of terror, and said, with a steady severity that cost her a great effort, “I hope you have not quarrelled.”