“I wish that we could start to-night, Harold,” Theresa said.
“And I echo that wish, darling. Do you know if Margaret has yet decided upon a suitable person?”
“No, Harold; I think that we might have managed our affairs much better alone. For some reason, Miss Nugent wishes to delay our departure. She objects to haste of any kind.”
“It is only because she feels the responsibility of suiting you in every way, Theresa,” Sir Harold hastened to assure her. “I think that Margaret has been very kind to us.”
Theresa shuddered.
“I do not like her, Harold,” she said. “It may seem a silly prejudice, but I cannot get rid of the feeling that your cousin is our enemy.”
For a moment Sir Harold was inclined to anger. An exclamation of impatience escaped him, and the young wife never forgot his look of annoyance.
“Theresa, I cannot listen to such folly. Margaret Nugent our enemy? Why should she be our enemy? It is unjust—cruel!”
He turned and left her, and Theresa shed bitter tears. But in one minute he was back again, and soothing her with tender words and caresses.
“Forgive me, dear one,” he cried. “I spoke hastily, and I am sorry. I will speak to Margaret, and we will not wait for the maid if it is so difficult to find a suitable one. The bustle and whirl of the streets makes me irritable, and lately I have suffered excruciating pains in my head at times. It annoys me when I am accosted by people of whom I know nothing, and this occurred twice yesterday. Fortunately, this is the time of year when London is comparatively empty, or I should be afraid to go out at all. I believe that my memory will soon assume its proper functions,” he added, reflectively. “I distinctly remember many things this morning which have been a blank.”