That possibility might have added some grains to the satisfaction of making a respectable toilette next day. Certain it is that Miss Sandbrook’s mountain costume was an exquisite feat of elaborate simplicity, and that the completion of her sketch was interrupted by many a backward look down the pass, and many a contradictory mood, sometimes boding almost as harsh
a reception for Robert as for Mr. Calthorp, sometimes relenting in the thrill of hope, sometimes accusing herself of arrant folly, and expecting as a pis aller the diversion of dazzling and tormenting an Oxonian, or a soldier or two! Be the meeting what it might, she preferred that it should be out of Horatia’s sight, and so drew on and on to the detriment of her distances.
Positively it was past twelve, and the desire to be surprised unconcernedly occupied could no longer obviate her restlessness, so she packed up her hair-pencil, and, walking back to the inn, found Rashe in solitary possession of the coffee-room.
‘You have missed him, Cilly.’
‘Owen? No one else?’
‘No, not the Calthorp; I am sorry for you.’
‘But who was here? tell me, Rashe.’
‘Owen, I tell you,’ repeated Horatia, playing with her impatience.
‘Tell me; I will know whether he has any one with him.’
‘Alack for your disappointment, for the waste of that blue bow; not a soul came here but himself.’