"Not I," said Mr. Cochrane bravely. "Orban has made his apologies, I suppose?"
He ran up the steps, said good-bye, and in a few minutes the two men were gone, leaving Eustace to face a terrible ordeal.
He took his father's suggestion and talked much of Miss Chase. It was made easy for him by the kindly curiosity of both Mrs. Cochrane and Trixy.
Beatrix was a jolly girl, rather like Bob both in looks and ways. She was older for her age than Nesta, perhaps because she had no companions of her own standing to keep her back. Eustace and she always got on well together, and to-night he was grateful to her for being such a chatterbox. The story of Aunt Dorothy's lunatics made Mrs. Cochrane and Trix both laugh till the tears ran down their cheeks. It was harder to tell them about the evening before, for that was all so full of Bob.
It struck Mrs. Cochrane after a time that Eustace looked singularly pale, and that the boy was talking rather fast and excitedly, unlike his usual self.
"Do you know," she said, "I believe you are very tired, Eustace. What do you say to going to bed?"
"Oh, I should love it," he said, with such eagerness that Mrs. Cochrane was startled, and eyeing him critically she discovered he was now crimson.
"I just hope he has not got a touch of the sun," was her thought.
But she said nothing of her fear.
Eustace was put into Bob's room, and everything he looked at in it made him more miserable. But he was thankful to get away by himself at last and give up the wretched pretence of good spirits. He felt he was getting to the end of his powers, that in another minute the truth would tumble out in spite of him. All the time he was talking he was also listening—listening—listening for the sound of hoofs that never came.