‘You settle down, old man?’ replied Ilfracombe. ‘Yes, when you’re carried to your grave, not before. However, let us change so unprofitable a subject. You are booked then, Nora, for the day, so perhaps Lady Bowmant will permit me to be her cavalier.’
‘With pleasure, Lord Ilfracombe! I shall be delighted to get you to myself for a little, since you are going to be cruel enough to desert us so soon.’
They all rose laughing from table after that, and dispersed to their separate apartments.
It was pleasant and cool when Nora strolled out to the meadow to meet Jack Portland. Her thoughts were pleasant too. On the next day she was going to take her husband far away from the temptation of Mr Portland’s society, and she hoped before they met him again, to have persuaded Ilfracombe to give up play altogether. Those abominable letters would be destroyed by that time. She was determined that she would burn them to ashes as soon as ever she got them in her hands, and then the coast would be clear before her and Ilfracombe for the rest of their married life. She hummed the air of a popular ditty to herself as she walked through the rich thick grass, expecting to see Mr Portland every moment coming to meet her with the longed-for packet in his hands.
Instead of which, a young woman plainly attired, came up to her and said,—
‘I beg your pardon, Lady Ilfracombe, but are you waiting for Mr Portland?’
Nora turned round exclaiming angrily,—
‘And what business is that of yours?’ when she recognised the speaker. ‘Oh, Miss Llewellyn, is that you? I—I—did not know you at first. Yes, I am waiting for Mr Portland, though I cannot think how you came to know it.’
‘Because he told me so himself, and commissioned me to deliver this packet to you?’
Lady Ilfracombe grew very red, as she took the letters.