"Well, mind you do," says Lilian, dismissing him with a gracious nod.
So Heskett departs, much exercised in mind, and in the lowest spirits, being full of vague doubts, yet with a keen consciousness that by his promise to Miss Chesney he has forfeited his dearest joy, and that from him the glory of life has departed. No more poaching, no more snaring, no more midnight excursions fraught with delicious danger: how is he to get on in future, with nothing to murder but time?
Meanwhile Miss Chesney, coming home flushed with victory, encounters Florence in the garden wandering gracefully among the flowers, armed as usual with the huge umbrella, the guardian of her dear complexion.
"You have been for a walk?" she asks Lilian, with astonishing bonhommie. "I hope it was a pleasant one."
"Very, thank you."
"Then you were not alone. Solitary walks are never pleasant."
"Nevertheless, mine was solitary."
"Then, Guy did not go with you?" somewhat hastily.
"No. He found he had something to do in the stables," Lilian answers, shortly.
Miss Beauchamp laughs a low, soft, irritative laugh.