He answered exactly as she wanted him to answer. She dressed herself in her best and most imposing style, and off they went.
It was the most perfect sort of August day—bland, fair, not too hot, not dusty. Mrs. Terhune leaned back, greatly enjoying it all—the light air blowing against her face, the pleasant scents of the countryside, and, above all, the festive feeling caused by the presence of the holiday-making nephew.
Being only twenty-five to her fifty, Dacier was perhaps not quite so contented. He would have liked to drive, but it made his aunt nervous, so he had foregone that pleasure—although, to tell the truth, it made him nervous to sit back and go creeping along at such a calm, moderate pace. However, he enjoyed life so much that he was indulgent toward other people, and wished to make them happy as well; so on they went, conversing affectionately.
III
“Mercy!” suddenly cried Mrs. Terhune. “Can it be? Johnson, please stop the car!”
This Johnson did, and Mrs. Terhune pointed to a field to the right of the road, across which a white figure was sauntering.
“Robert,” she said to her nephew, “I’m sure that’s Mildred. I should know that figure and that walk anywhere. Oh, dear, she’s going through the fence! I can’t lose her. Do run after her and bring her back—that’s a dear boy!”
So off went young Dacier across the sunny field, bareheaded, and, his aunt thought, marvelously fleet and graceful.
The figure in white had gone through a gap in the fence, and had turned up a shady little road, but Dacier took a short cut, leaped over the fence, and stood be[Pg 106]fore her, flushed and very hot. He had forgotten the jilted spinster’s surname, if he had ever heard it; but he felt quite certain that this was not she—not this serene and lovely young creature.
“Excuse me,” said he, “but I thought you were Mildred.”