“I have not the least idea,” I said, getting up with as much dignity as I could muster. “I suppose about the time people usually come.”
“H’m! I suppose one cannot expect young ladies to be very lucid in their statements about such matters,” he replied, with a singularly unpleasant smile.
“I suppose not,” I retorted obstinately.
“Well, I suppose one must only expect him when he comes,” said my uncle, with a return of suavity, as distasteful to me as his former manner. I called the dogs away from their assiduous polishing of the plates on which they had had their dinners, and left him to finish his wine alone.
“How detestable he can be when he likes!” I thought, seating myself before the drawing-room fire. “I wonder why he dislikes Nugent so much? I don’t suppose it can be on account of Willy; after all, there is really no reason for that.” My cheeks were still hot, and I put my hands over them, looking through my fingers into the fire. “If Uncle Dominick is going to make himself unpleasant in this kind of way, I shall have to go back to America, no matter what Willy thinks about it.”
My ideas as to leaving Durrus were still as hazy as they had been yesterday morning at the old graveyard, and this was a fresh complication. I had, however, made up my mind on one point—until I saw Willy again, I would settle nothing. That was at least definite; and so was the fact which at this moment occurred to me—that I should break down in one of the more difficult of the violin accompaniments if I did not practise it before Nugent came. I gave the fire an impatient poke, and, mentally throwing my reflections into it, went over to the piano.
I had said to my uncle that I supposed Nugent would come at the usual time, but I was forced to the conclusion that his views on the subject differed from those of most people. Teatime came, and, after waiting till the tea was becoming bitter, and the buttered toast half congealed, I partook of it in solitude. I began to wonder if it were possible that he could have made a mistake about the day, and again taking out his letter, I read it over. The clear, forcible handwriting was not that of a person who made mistakes, and it set forth plainly the fact that on this afternoon the writer intended to come and see me, and would come as early as he could. The sprawling minute-hand of the ormolu clock was now well on its way towards half-past five; something must have happened to prevent him from coming, unless, indeed, he had forgotten all about it. I did not think it likely that he would forget, but the possibility was not a pleasant one. I sat in the cheery light of the fire until the minute-hand had passed the illegibly ornamental figure which marked the half-hour, and, feeling a good deal more disappointed and put out than I cared to own to myself, I was going to ring for the lamp and settle down to a book, when I heard the sound of quick trotting, and the light run of a dog-cart’s wheels on the avenue.
“I know I’m very late,” said Nugent, as he shook hands with me, “and I meant to be very early, but it wasn’t my fault. I am sure you are going to tell me that the tea is cold, but I don’t care; I prefer it with the chill just off.”
“Then you will be gratified,” I said, pouring it out. “I began to think you were not coming, and was repenting that I had wasted half an hour in practising that awful accompaniment of Braham’s.”
“Did you really do that? It was very good of you. I did my best to get away early, but I had to stay and see Captain Forster off. I can’t say that he seemed to appreciate the attention, as he was playing billiards with Connie up to the last minute. I was very sorry afterwards that I had been such a fool as to lose the whole afternoon on his account.”