Goodhare’s face, as usual, grew black at the mention of the earl’s name.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” he said, shortly. “But I don’t suppose he’ll be pleased.”
“I do hope, though, that he’ll forgive them very soon. But now I must say good-bye to you, Mr. Goodhare, for my mother must be by this time waiting for me at Rees’s lodgings.”
She bowed to him, and turning, walked rapidly back to St. Martin’s-lane, where she found Mrs. Pennant in the act of getting out a cab.
“What is the matter, my dear? You look so dreadfully white,” cried the old lady on seeing her.
The girl ran up and clung to her hand.
“Mamma, mamma, don’t go in again, or if you do, let me go away without you,” she whispered in a hoarse voice. “I cannot bear it.”
Mrs. Pennant was a strangely reticent woman, whose thoughts were difficult to guess. She turned as pale as the girl herself, however, and drawing her into the cab without more inquiries, directed the cabman to drive to Paddington.
The two ladies reached Carstow late that night; but neither during the journey, on their arrival, nor ever afterwards, did they exchange confidences on the subject of the impressions the visit to Rees had left on their minds.
In the meantime the first thick fog of the season was settling down steadily over London, and when Amos Goodhare rejoined Rees in the little back room, the gas which they were obliged to light shone dimly through a murky mist. The young man lay stretched on the narrow sofa.