“I’m so glad,” Yvonne interposed in her frank, sunny way. Then they had parted.
“She seems a nice, pleasant, straightforward sort of girl, with no nonsense about her,” was Haldane’s comment as they strolled back from the gate. “Pity she comes of that rotten brood. I wouldn’t have one of the others inside my door on any account. But I’ve always stood out against holding the individual responsible for the defects of its relatives, and here, I fancy, is a case in point. Let’s go and try for a trout, Sunbeam.”
Their late guest, speeding along in the sweet June sunshine was going over the day’s events in her mind, and into the same there shot a sudden idea. If only she could be wanted as “companion” for Yvonne. She had held a post of the kind before, and had found it, not through her own fault, intolerable. But here it would be like Paradise, such was the spell this sunny child-woman, with the pretty little foreign ways contracted during a large Continental experience, had woven upon her. It needed Clytie to point out to her that a hale, middle-aged man such as Haldane, if in want of that functionary at all, must perforce employ a very Gorgon, which, of course, he could never dream of doing; and her musings kept her so busy that she nearly dropped off her bicycle in the start she gave on finding herself almost face to face with Wagram.
He was advancing towards her, evidently making for a gate that led into the ride of a wood. He had a rabbit rifle in his hand, the same weapon that had figured in the adventure. She was on her feet in a moment.
“Oh, Mr Wagram, how good of you!” she began in her impulsive way. “Clytie has just had two orders—both through your recommendation.”
“I am always pleased to be of use to anybody when it is within my power.”
What was this? Had the very heavens fallen? His tone was icy. He had just formally touched her outstretched hand—no more than the barest courtesy demanded.
“It was very, very good of you all the same,” she pursued lamely.
“Pray don’t mention it,” he replied, lifting his hat with a movement as though to resume his way, which she could not ignore.
She remounted her bicycle, and well, indeed, was it for her that the road was clear, as she whirled along mechanically with pale face and choking a sob in her throat. What did it mean? What had she done? What could she have done? The god at whose shrine she worshipped was displeased—sorely and grievously displeased. Yet why, why? To this she could find no answer—no, none.