“Well, it’s only once in a way, and won’t hurt anybody. And you can’t ask a man to stay with you, and then tie him down to rigid hours like a schoolboy.”
The time was nine o’clock on the second morning after Herbert Raynier’s arrival. It need hardly be said that he was the offender against punctuality.
Cynthia frowned, rattling the crockery upon the tea-tray somewhat viciously.
“Why not? I hate irregularity,” she answered. “I should have thought regular habits would have been the first essential in Herbert’s department—towards getting on in it, that is.”
“Well, he has got on in it, regular habits or not. You can’t deny that, my dear, at any rate.”
“It delays everything so,” went on the grievance-monger. “The servants can’t clear away, or get to their work. Herbert knows we have breakfast at half-past eight and now it’s after nine, and there’s no sign of him. I can’t keep the house going on those lines, so it’s of no use trying.”
“Well, you’ll soon be in a position to reform him to your heart’s content,” said the Vicar with a twinkle in his eye—and there came a grim, set look about the other’s rather thin-lipped mouth which augured ill for Raynier’s domestic peace in the future.
Cynthia Daintree had just missed being pretty. Her straight features were too coldly severe, and her grey eyes a trifle too steely, but her brown hair was soft and abundant, and there were occasions when her face could light up, and become attractive. She was tall, and had a remarkably fine figure, and as she managed to dress well on somewhat limited resources, the verdict was that she was a striking-looking girl. But she had a temper, a very decided temper—which, it was whispered, was accountable for the fact that now, at very much nearer thirty than twenty, her recent engagement to Herbert Raynier was by no means her first.
Now the offender entered, characteristically careless.
“Morning, Cynthia. Hallo, you look disobliged. What’s the row? Morning, Vicar.”