“Only of course you would not wish to leave Lord St. Quentin in his present state of health,” said Mr. Seaton rather pointedly, and Lady Frederica sighed and said she supposed not, but these lingering illnesses were very inconvenient.
Then the carriage drove on.
As soon as they reached the Castle, Sydney ran to the library, knocked, and went in. St. Quentin seemed immersed in a book. She went and stood beside his couch, her hands behind her.
“Cousin St. Quentin,” she said, “we met Mr. Seaton, so I know now that my note did not go to him.”
“It went into the fire,” said St. Quentin, without raising his eyes from his book. “Your hand-writing isn’t precisely a credit to the aristocracy, you know. You’d better do some copies before you turn into a marchioness.”
But Sydney was not to be put off by his tone.
“I’m very sorry I was cross,” she said earnestly. “It was ever so good of you to write him a nice note instead!”
St. Quentin went on reading in silence for a minute, then looked up.
“If you are going to remain,” he said, “and pray do, if you feel inclined, shut the door and don’t talk nonsense!”