Descending the steps from the terrace, he walked slowly along the brick way to the stable, where he found Mary giving medicine to her favourite horse.
"Briar Rose has a bad cough, David."
He asked a few questions, and then, when the dose was administered, they turned together, and strolled back through the garden. Mary looked cross and anxious, and he could tell by the way she spoke in short jerks that her nerves were not steady. Her tone of chaffing had lost its ease, and the effort she made to appear flippant seemed to hurt her.
"Are you all right again, Mary?"
"Quite all right. Why shouldn't I be?"
"There's no reason that I know of," he replied seriously. "Have you decided when you will be married?"
She winced as if he had touched a nerve. "No, we haven't decided." For a minute she walked on quickly, then looking up with a defiant smile, she said, "I am not sure that we are ever going to be married."
So the trouble was out at last! He breathed heavily, overcome by some indefinable dread. After all, why should Mary's words have disturbed him so deeply? The chances were, he told himself, that it was nothing more than the usual lovers' quarrel.
"My dear, Alan is a good fellow. Don't let anything make trouble between you."
"Oh, I know he is a good fellow—only—only I am not sure we—we should be happy together. I don't care about books, and he doesn't care any longer for horses——"