“Good,” said Fulke enthusiastically.
That Julia was as wise as she was pretty is a true saying. But, what is more to the point, she was wiser than Fulke.
George made an admirable swain. As a husband, he would have been a complete failure. This was generally recognized. Mrs. Pardoner had seen it, and so had Mrs. Herrick. Miss Willow was no whit less shrewd. Besides . . .
When, therefore, she accepted his terms, she knew what he did not suspect—that of his innocence he had left her a loophole of dimensions so ample that it was resembling a grand entrance.
In a word, while she very much wanted her ring—it being a beautiful gaud and of great value—she had not the slightest intention of becoming disengaged.
That Fulke’s cake, then, was dough is perfectly plain.
Secured by this comfortable reflection, Miss Willow was in very good cue. The bargain struck, George had recaptured his former excellence and had made very seasonable love. She held great expectation of his finding the ring, and was more than thankful to be spared the grisly ordeal of revisiting her haunts of Saturday upon such a delicate quest. As for Hubert, her peace must be made with honour: but that, she decided, should not be difficult. Indeed, by the time she had parted with George and was once more at home she had become quite hopeful that Hubert would make the first move.
The sight of a note addressed in his well-known hand set the seal upon her content.
She opened it with a faint smile.
My dear Julia,