The eagerness of his attempt to respond showed his wish. Mrs. Mancredo ordered her carriage for a drive past the gardens of the town, on the lookout for moss roses.
“She must be a widow,” she was saying to herself, when her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a rosebush, much beaten down on the side next the house-steps; and on the other, in the full glory of its mossy beauty.
“Turn round, John, and go slowly back, and then come to this spot and on, till I tell you to stop.”
As they passed the house the second time, Mrs. Mancredo had a good view of the roses, and of a young woman whose every nervous motion meant purpose, watering the bush. Mrs. Mancredo stopped the carriage and descended. On approaching Miss Daksha she looked at her steadily a moment, and then presented her card.
“I came—I came to look at your moss roses, and to talk about them. What has happened to this bush?” she said abruptly.
“It has been abused.”
“Did you ever live on a farm?” said Mrs. Mancredo then, after a long pause.
Ethelbert turned and looked at her, and then drawing chairs into the shade, said with a strange, sweet smile: “No, I never did. Now please sit here and I’ll sit with you, and you shall tell me what you really want to know.”
Mrs. Mancredo was a bit overwhelmed; but she sat, and wheeling her guns, said as suddenly as possible: “Reginald Grove wants to see you.”
“Is he ill?”