His vivid color and animation returned as he caught her to him, heedless of witnesses.
"You dare? My dear, my dear, not even a question? There is no one like you. Say, shall I take you now, or send Dick for you after the race?"
Mr. Ffrench exclaimed some inarticulate words, but neither heard him.
"Send Dick," Emily answered, her eyes on the gray eyes above her. "Send Dick—I understand, I will come."
He kissed her once, then she drew back and he went down the terraces toward the gates. As Emily sank down on the bench by the pavilion door, Bailey brushed past her, running after the straight, lithe figure that went steadily on out of sight among the huge trees planted and tended by five generations of Ffrenches.
When the vistas of the park were empty, Emily slowly turned to face her uncle.
"You love David Ffrench?" he asked, his voice thin and harsh.
"Yes," she answered. She had no need to ask if Lestrange were meant.
"He is married to some woman of the music-halls."
"No."