“If I must go away, let me go to the Deanery!” she implored. “I can’t go with Lady Frederica! I must go to somebody who cares too!”
A flush swept over St. Quentin’s face.
“Who cares too?” he muttered, then with an effort turned to her and spoke aloud.
“Sydney, I’ll tell you this. If, in God’s mercy, I get through the operation, I am going to follow your advice, and tell the girl I love just everything, as I told you.”
Sydney got her way, and went to the Deanery, accompanied by Miss Osric, leaving Lady Frederica to go off to town alone.
The third day of her absence from the Castle had come—a long dreary day, which seemed unending. It was to relieve the strain of that waiting time that Katharine suggested, when the shadows were falling long about the Close, that they should go across to Oliver’s, to choose a gold chain as a birthday present for the little cousin Sylvia, whose birthday was to be on the morrow.
Action of any kind was something of a comfort, and Sydney came.
A shabbily-dressed man was just concluding some bargain with the jeweller as the two girls came into the shop—some bargain with which he seemed very much dissatisfied. “It’s worth ever so much more, confound you for a screw!” they heard him say. “Why, that’s two quid less than you gave the parson for it. I only brought it here because I thought you’d give a better price for your own thing.”
Sydney started violently, for the voice was Sir Algernon’s, and on the counter between him and Oliver there lay her little watch.
Katharine had recognised him also, and her eyes flashed. “Come away, Sydney dear,” she said.