There was a brief silence. Mr. Isaacs glanced at me, whistled softly to himself, and then strolled slowly over to the window, as though to see what sort of a night it was. Miss Fay glanced at me impatiently, with a slight contraction in her eyebrows. I longed desperately to get away, but for the life of me could think of no excuse.
“You won’t offer your escort, then, Mr. Morton?” she whispered.
“I can’t. I don’t know the town—never was here before—and we have a twelve-mile drive before us. We are expecting the carriage every moment. Ah, there it is!” I added, with a sudden sense of relief, as I heard the sound of horses’ feet stamping and pawing outside and the jingling of harness. “Mr. Marx, Burdett has come!” I called out.
He looked up, frowning.
“All right; there’s no hurry!” he said. “If you’re not ready, pray don’t study me. I should enjoy a cigar and a brandy-and-soda down at the ‘Bell’ before we start.”
“I’m quite ready, thanks,” I answered slowly, for his words and manner had given me something to think about. “If you don’t mind, I should like to be getting away. It’s a long way, you know.”
“Oh, pray don’t let me detain you!” Miss Fay exclaimed, tossing her head. “Mr. Isaacs, if you’re ready, I am. Good-night, Mr. Marx; good-night, Mr. Morton!”
She drew me a little on one side—a manœuvre which I was powerless to prevent—and whispered in my ear:
“You shy, stupid boy! There!”
She shook hands with me again and left something in my palm. When they were gone and I was in the passage, I looked at it. It was a plain card and on it was hastily scribbled an address: