They walked to the hall door; Lord Wolfenden’s carriage had come back from the station and was waiting for him.
“How are you going?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I must hire something, I suppose,” she said. “What beautiful horses! Do you see, Hector remembers me quite well; I used to take bread to him in the stable when I was at Deringham Hall. Good old man!”
She patted the horse’s neck. Wolfenden did not like it, but he had no alternative.
“Won’t you allow me to give you a lift?” he said, with a marked absence of cordiality in his tone; “or if you would prefer it, I can easily order a carriage from the hotel.”
“Oh! I would much rather go with you, if you really don’t mind,” she said. “May I really?”
“I shall be very pleased,” he answered untruthfully. “I ought perhaps to tell you that the horses are very fresh and don’t go well together: they have a nasty habit of running away down hill.”
She smiled cheerfully, and lifting her skirts placed a dainty little foot upon the step.