“You are very, very kind,” she said slowly, “and very considerate,” she added, after a moment’s pause. “I shall not forget it.”
She looked him then straight in the eyes. He was more glad than he would have liked to confess even to himself to hear Selby’s knock at the door.
“You have nothing to thank me for yet at any rate,” he said, taking her hand. “I shall be only too glad if you will let me be of service to you.”
He led her out to the carriage and watched it drive away, with Selby on the box seat. Her last glance, as she leaned back amongst the cushions, was a tender one; her lips were quivering, and her little fingers more than returned his pressure. But Wolfenden walked back to his study with all the pleasurable feelings of a man who has extricated himself with tact from an awkward situation.
“The frankness,” he remarked to himself, as he lit a pipe and stretched himself out for a final smoke, “was a trifle, just a trifle, overdone. She gave the whole show away with that last glance. I should like very much to know what it all means.”
CHAPTER VI
A COMPACT OF THREE
Wolfenden, for an idler, was a young man of fairly precise habits. By ten o’clock next morning he had breakfasted, and before eleven he was riding in the Park. Perhaps he had some faint hope of seeing there something of the two people in whom he was now greatly interested. If so he was certainly disappointed. He looked with a new curiosity into the faces of the girls who galloped past him, and he was careful even to take particular notice of the few promenaders. But he did not see anything of Mr. Sabin or his companion.