There was no reason why they should keep away from Borton. Lady Gwendolyn was not ashamed to face her brother or his wife, and Colonel Dacre looked forward to vindicating his darling, and claiming for her the respect and homage that were her due.
If Lady Teignmouth had dared to traduce her—let her beware. He was not bound to spare Reginald, although they had once been friends. His wife’s honor would always be far dearer to him than aught else besides.
On Tuesday evening Colonel Dacre dined in Park Lane, and was gratified to find that Mrs. Venable had the tact to leave the drawing-room for them after dessert.
“My husband likes to have me while he is smoking his cigar, as he is away all day,” was the apology she made, as she took her departure, and the lovers could not help laughing happily in each other’s faces, it seemed so very unnecessary.
Colonel Dacre possessed himself of half Lady Gwendolyn’s couch, and did not seem to notice that it was a tight fit for two.
“Well, my darling,” he said, as he drew her head down on to his breast; “you don’t ask me if everything is ready.”
“With a person of your promptitude and energy such a question is superfluous,” she returned, smiling up at him from the safe shelter which would be hers by divine right on the morrow.
“I suppose you are dreadfully miserable?” he said softly.
“Dreadfully,” she answered, longing to torment him a little, and yet feeling as if she could not. “How do I look?”
“More beautiful than ever,” he answered rapturously.