“I have sent out cards for a dinner party next Thursday,” said Linda to Aunt Ella. “There will be an opportunity for that 'explanation,' but you must assume the responsibility if there should be a tragic ending.”
“We must hope for the best,” replied Aunt Ella. “I will gather up the fragments after the explosion.”
From the expression on Florence's face, when Sir Wilfred Hornaby and Captain Reginald Hornaby were announced as guests, the explosion seemed imminent.
In her mind, she had looked forward to such a meeting with a sensation of delight. Now that it had come her pride was up in arms. She had been tricked into coming. The Countess and Aunt Ella had arranged this meeting. Perhaps he had been told that she would be present. Well, if they did meet, he would have to do the talking. She had no explanation to make. If he had one, he must introduce the subject.
At the dinner Florence sat next to Sir Wilfred, but the Captain was far removed on the other side of the long table. Sir Wilfred was politely attentive. Did he know of his son's crime? Evidently not—but, if he did, he had condoned the offence. But how could he if he was the man of honour that the Countess had pictured him in her letter to Aunt Ella? No, the son had deceived his father as he had her father. Did she really love him? Had she forgiven him? If he had proposed when Florence was in that state of uncertainty, his rejection would have been swift and positive.
When the dinner was over, the Captain, apparently unconscious of guilt, approached Florence. He offered his arm.
“Will you come with me, Miss Sawyer? I have a very important question to ask you.”
Should she go? He was going to ask her a question. She had many to ask him. This unpleasant uncertainty must end—now, was the accepted time.
She took his arm, and he made his way to the conservatory—that haven of confidences, where so many lovers have been made happy, or unhappy.
“Why have you not answered my letters?” he said.