“Annoyed! Oh, Lord, that’s not the word! Cis says ‘upset.’ That’s nearer, only seventeen times more upset than usual! Poor woman, she feels that Julia owes the man some reparation for ‘breaking his neck,’ but marriage seems to her extreme.”
“But what’s the objection? He seems a decent sort of chap.”
“He is; the decentest of his sort; but it’s not the sort madam had hoped for Julia. Money, y’ know, and—well, composers seem a bit out of the way to her. But the girl has too much blood to take—” he smiled quizzically—“what was the ‘correct thing.’”
“I’ve had an idea that this would come about from the first,” said Holden, complacently.
“M’m?” Thair mused, interrogative.
“Mrs. Essington’s been immensely interested in those two young people. Shouldn’t wonder—”
Thair bit off a smile. “Remarkable woman, Mrs. Essington,” he observed.
“That damned train’s spending the night on the switch,” growled Holden. He didn’t look down the track, but over his shoulder at the “Miramar” runabout that had just come into sight around the turn of the drive.
The lady who sat so erect beside the groom was Florence Essington.
Holden looked relieved. Thair indulged in what might be called a mental whistle. He gave one sharp glance at Holden, whose attention was engrossed by the approaching vehicle; then a frank smile and a wave of the hand toward the lady—a salute she returned in kind. The approaching train hurried their greetings and farewells, but in that short time he got an impression of a more obvious sophistication, a more pronounced worldliness in her than he had recalled.