"Please do not take my knowledge for granted," he said, his heart beating more quickly as he spoke; "do you mean that Miss Aldyth will marry her cousin?"
"Oh, hush!" she said, putting her finger to her lips with a warning look, and then glancing at the other visitors. "I would not have said anything about it, but I made sure you knew."
"But surely—if they are engaged—Is it an engagement?"
"That is an awkward question, Mr. Glynne," said Clara, dropping her eyes. "I do not wish to tell you a story, and I am not at liberty to answer in the affirmative. Though really it is absurd to make a secret of it, for every one at Woodham has known since they were children that Guy and Aldyth were intended for each other. My great-aunt, Miss Rudkin, is in Mr. Stephen Lorraine's confidence, and he has told her that he looks forward to their union. But pray do not repeat what I have said; I should not have told you."
"It is safe with me," he said, quietly.
He was on his guard, and could maintain an air of indifference.
"There has been an absurd fuss lately," said Clara, in a carefully subdued tone, "because a rumour arose that Aldyth was engaged to another gentleman. I understand that she has been most indignant about it, and the Blands call it a preposterous idea. Aldyth is very proud; I suppose it does not please her that her name should be coupled with that of any one save her cousin."
"Naturally," said John Glynne, rising to put down his cup. His tone was cold and hard. With all his self-control, he could not help the colour rising in his face as Miss Dawtrey spoke.
It was impossible that in such a place as Woodham, he should fail to hear what people were saying about him and Miss Aldyth Lorraine. It had annoyed him almost as much as it had annoyed her; but his vexation was entirely on her account. He could not blame himself: He had done nothing that could give colour to such an assertion. He was certain that Clara Dawtrey meant to annoy him by her words. She could not have supposed that he was unaware that it was his name that people had linked to that of Aldyth. But for that he cared not. What stung him in her words was their suggestion that some disdain of him had mingled with Aldyth's indignation. He took his departure hastily, and went back to his lodgings in a depressed frame of mind.
His little sitting room, with its hard, horsehair furniture, its brilliantly coloured pictures, its quaint decorations of seaweed and shells, had never seemed so distasteful and unhomelike as it did to-night. His landlady's shoes had never creaked so horribly as when she was laying on the table his evening meal; the conversational efforts she made in her nasal monotone had never been so tiresome.