Una smiled.
“He is very good and kind,” she said, still a little absently. “Oh, very kind. No one could have taken more trouble to make me happy.”
“Yes, Stephen likes to see you happy,” said Mrs. Davenant, softly. “Poor Stephen!” and she sighed.
But Una heard neither the expression of pity nor the sigh. She had risen, and was moving about the room with that suppressed impatience which marks the one who wafts an expected joy.
Presently her quick ears heard the rattle of approaching wheels, and with a throbbing heart she looked at the clock. It wanted ten minutes to the appointed time for Jack’s arrival. With a quick flush of gratitude for his punctuality she moved to the door, and stole swiftly and softly to her own room, to regain composure. She heard the carriage pull up and go away to the stables—heard the hurried tread of footsteps in the marble hall—and then, with the faint flush grown into a full-blown blush, went downstairs and entered the drawing-room.
A sudden shock of disappointment chilled her. Stephen was standing before the fire warming his hands, but Jack was not there.
Stephen, in the glass, saw her enter, saw the sudden start and disappearance of the warm flush, and turned to meet her.
He looked tired, pale and worn, and the smile with which he met her was a singular one, one that would have been almost triumphant but for the expression of anxiety underlying it.
“I have got back, you see,” he said. “And are you quite well?”
Una murmured an inaudible response, and he went back to the fire and bent over it, warming his hands, his face grown, if anything, still paler.