“I have known long enough to mitigate my alarm at your greeting. Your letters were at the post-office. Yes—here we are. How do you do, Miss Vyner?”
“I shall believe in brain-waves in future,” said Constancy, as she gave him her hand. “I had just recalled a conversation with you and Mr Waynflete, and I see you coming. Is he with you?”
“Yes, at last. His brother thought him overworked, and very sensibly wrote to me to come and carry him off. There he is.”
Constancy had not seen Guy for more than nine months, her last remembrance of him was among the dancers at the Kirkton Hall garden-party, and she realised at once, as he came along the verandah, that the slight youth with his pathetic eyes had grown into a very remarkable person.
“Why—he looks like a mystic, or a martyr!” she thought. “No wonder people turn and look at him. It’s a startling face.”
Guy’s greeting was, however, simple enough. He was cordial, but he smiled his little reserved smile as he said—
“Yes, it was very good of Staunton to wait for me. I couldn’t get away before. When I go back, I hope Godfrey will go to Scotland and get some shooting.”
“And Rawdie? Is he thriving? And have you seen my aunt and Florella? Are they quite settled at Waynflete?”
Guy answered appropriately, and presently took his letters, and went away to study them.
He was still sitting in a quiet corner of the verandah, when Staunton, who had remained to exchange news and plans with his sisters, came in search of him.