“I will write to-night in the train, after I’ve left London.”
“So will I, darling.”
They stood in silence.
“If something doesn’t come soon, I ought to begin to walk,” said Frances nervously. “I can’t miss the train.”
The sound of wheels, muffled in the fog but unmistakable, came to them both almost as she spoke.
“I don’t know if they’ll see us, the mist is so bad just here. Come a little on to the road, Francie.”
“I think it’s Mrs. Westaway’s cart. I can see the white horse.”
They hailed the cart and Frances called out her request.
The farmer’s wife acceded to it cheerfully, begging Miss Frances not to keep the mare standing, but to jump up quickly.
So Rosamund kissed her once, almost threw the little case in after her, and in another instant the high dog-cart and jolly, fat Mrs. Westaway on the driving-seat with her great baskets of market produce, and Frances clinging to the back seat, and the impatient white mare, had all disappeared into the mist, and even the sound of wheels had become inaudible.