At the next step she encountered Miss Turquand.
In spite of her resolve to cultivate the young girl’s friendship, a cold inclination of the head was all that passed between them.
A warmer salutation to Lady Quaintree followed, but Mrs. Desfrayne was too impatient to hear what her son had to say, to be able to stop just then for a little idle, sunshiny gossip.
Paul handed her into the brougham that was in waiting.
It was a hired one, as Mrs. Desfrayne always remembered as she was about to enter it. She had longed for the days when either by some brilliant matrimonial stroke on her own part, or that of her son, she should be the happy possessor of such carriages and horses as might please her fancy. Yet now she was secretly determined to hinder, if possible, her son’s acceptance of a fortune that far exceeded her most sanguine dreams.
With anxiety she regarded Paul’s face as he seated himself beside her. He was ashy pale, and his eyes were bright with the brightness of fever.
“Home,” she said to the coachman.
Too wary to hasten the unwilling confession by ill-timed or injudicious questions, Mrs. Desfrayne nestled back in her cozy corner, and began to flirt her garden-fan, waiting patiently.
It is always the first step that forms the difficulty, and even yet Paul could not resolve on precipitating himself into those cold waters he so dreaded. Even did he take the plunge, how could he introduce the subject?
The drive passed, therefore, in constrained silence.